A Morality Tale
by Adamantwrites
Summary: Adam escapes from Andersonville during the Civil War and finds refuge on a farm in Georgia. No character death. Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plots are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.
1. Chapter 1

A Morality Tale

Part 1

The woman grabbed the loaded shotgun standing in the corner of the room and taking a lit lantern, she went out across the yard to the chicken house. The chickens were squawking again and this time, she was going to get the intruder.

She was sure it was a skunk. A few mornings she had gone out to collect eggs and found chicken feathers in the yard along with the occasional carcass, the head torn off so that the skunk could lap up the blood. Not only were there the tell-tale sucked eggs, but the musty smell of its fur would hang around the coop for a while. So this time she was ready and even if a few chickens got in the way, she was going to blow away the polecat for good.

She walked cautiously toward the chicken coop but it was no skunk; it looked like a man inside the fence, kneeling, his back to her. He hadn't seen her and since the chickens were still running around in the fenced section, not being able to slip out the gate that had swung back to an almost closed position, he hadn't heard her either.

She set the lantern on the ground and put the shotgun to her shoulder. "What're you doin', mister?"

The man quickly turned his head and stared at her. Then he slowly raised his hands in the air. "I don't have a gun," he said. "Please don't shoot. I don't mean any harm—I just…"

But she didn't let him finish his sentence. "Put your hands on the back of your neck and stand up."

The man dropped the egg he had been holding and tried to do as she ordered but he had difficulty standing up without the use of his hands. Finally, he managed. He stood about ten feet away from her and she reached down, watching him the whole time and picked up the lantern. She held up the light and saw that he wasn't lying—he was unarmed. He looked like a scarecrow, tall and thin; she felt he must have once been a big man, but now he was practically a skeleton, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow. And when she held the lantern closer to look at his face better, she saw that he still had egg yolk and slimy whites on his beard which was unkempt, as unkempt as his greasy, black hair that almost reached his shoulders and held bits of forest debris. But what struck her the most were his eyes; they looked as if they had seen horrors.

She held the lantern lower and saw that he had a bloody shirt; he obviously had a wound in his right side that was bleeding anew; the spot was glistening while his lower shirt and the upper part of his trousers had become soaked earlier; the blood there had dried and turned a rusty brown. And his clothing that hung on his body, was a Yankee uniform, or what was left of one. Now it was faded and worn.

She knew who he was. He was the escapee from the stockade at Camp Sumter near Andersonville, the man the Confederate soldiers were looking for when they had stopped by her farm earlier. If they came by now, she would gladly turn him over to them, even watched while they hanged him or shot him. After all, hadn't the Union more than likely killed her husband and destroyed almost all the south?

She would get the news of the war from travelers and neighbors, even though the nearest neighbor was over ten miles away, and she knew all the atrocities the Yankee soldiers had inflicted, the bayonetting of children, the raping of women—or so it went-and she had been warned that it was going to become worse as the Union army worked its way deeper into Georgia and all the way into Florida. And everywhere they went, the Union Army left a conflagration of destruction.

Up until recently, she had been isolated from the war on her small farm in southwest Georgia, but the two soldiers who had come by and to whom she served a fresh pan of cornbread and butter on her front porch, told her that Sherman was moving into the southern reaches of Georgia and that if she had relatives out west, she should go while she still could. But she told them that she had no one, she didn't even know if she still had a husband, if he was dead or alive. She would stay.

"This is the best food we've had in a long time, ma'am. I am grateful for your hospitality," the blond soldier told her. She had noticed how thin they both were and the red-headed soldier seemed just a boy to her, he was so young.

"Don't they feed you men at Andersonville?" she asked.

"Ma'am," the red-headed soldier said, "we barely got enough food to feed all the Union prisoners we got in the stockade—we barely get fed either. Leastways we get to go out and shoot a squirrel or a rabbit and make a stew. But corn meal? We got just enough to make some thin gruel for the prisoners to eat, leastways ourselves." The man went back to eating.

"Best cornbread I think I ever tasted, ma'am," the blond soldier said. It was obvious to her that he was the more refined of the two and although she wasn't particularly familiar with uniforms, his seemed a bit fancier that the other man's.

"Thank you—I made it with buttermilk and a little bacon fat. Would each of you like a glass of buttermilk?" They replied they would so she went back in and brought out the pitcher and two glasses and watched as the redhead quickly drained his glass of the thick milk while the blond savored every sip.

He smiled at her; the woman was young and pretty and he hadn't seen a woman, let alone a pretty one, in a long time; she made him ache for his wife back in Virginia. He told her that they had so many prisoners in Andersonville that they were transferring them to another stockade when this Union officer escaped and they were to bring him back or kill him. Then they talked about her husband and she revealed that other than a few letters early on, she had no knowledge of her husband's whereabouts, if he was dead or alive. And although he didn't say it, the soldier was certain her husband was dead. No man would ignore a wife like her and would have at least written by now or deserted to get back to her.

She then gave the soldiers two chickens which the blond one, Hawkins, tied over this saddle. They thanked her and then rode off and she watched them disappear into the falling dusk after telling them that she wished them luck in finding the prisoner.

And now she was face to face with the escaped prisoner. "Get out of here before I shoot you," she told the man, her voice quavering. She knew that she wouldn't shoot him but all that mattered was that he thought she would.

"Yes, ma'am," he said and began to drop his arms.

"Don't put your arms down—just walk, and if I see you lurking around here, I'll blow you clean apart. Understand?"

He just nodded and with a look of resignation, clasped his hands behind his neck again, and began to walk away. He had only gone a few yards when he seemed to stumble. His legs buckled underneath him and he collapsed, face-down on the ground. She cautiously walked over but he lay quietly, his face turned slightly to the side. She prodded him with the shotgun but he didn't move. She bent down slightly and held the lantern closer to him and saw that he had been shot in the right side of his back and for some reason, the thought that the soldiers had shot him in the back softened her a bit; he had been escaping, of that she was sure. And she thought of her husband. Had he been in a Union stockade and tried to escape, he would have been shot too, just like this man had. And she wondered if this starving man had a wife and children waiting and hoping for him to return safely to them. She considered whether or not she should attempt to revive him and feed him. But then she thought about how the Union was starving out the Confederacy and she decided she wanted him dead. It was the North that was responsible for the Union prisoners not receiving proper rations.

"Let him die out here—bleed to death," she said to herself and went into her house, bolting the door behind her. Then she washed her hands and went to her bed but she didn't sleep; it was too hot and she couldn't forget that she had a dying man in her front yard. "God forgive me," she whispered and felt hot tears.

It was mid-August in Georgia and the nights were barely cooler than the days and there was no breeze that night—the air was still. And she hoped that in the morning she would have a dead man in her yard or even better, that he had died and been dragged away by a black bear or some other predator. After all, inaction wasn't a sin. If she did nothing and let God decide if he should live or die, how could she be guilty of his death? But she knew she would be, she couldn't lie to herself, so sighing, she rolled out of bed, put on her light wrap, picked up the lantern, lit it, and slowly went to the front door. She paused before drawing back the bolt but she did. She looked out in the front yard and by the moonlight and the light of the lantern, she saw that he was still lying in the dirt.

TBC


	2. Part 2

Part 2

Zelphia McInery had married her childhood sweetheart; she had waited a long time and their marriage was to be the culmination of all those years of love, longing and desire. Then eight months after the wedding, her husband, Charles, left to join the war.

Their nearest neighbor had ridden up to the farm, grinning from ear to ear, holding back his eager horse. "Hey, Mac," he had called out, "Mac! War's been declared!"

Zelphia rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron; she had been preparing dinner for the two of them when she heard Frank Murphy's voice in the front yard.

"What did you say, Frank?" she asked. Although the news overjoyed the men and was what they had been hoping for, talking about and probably even praying for, it brought a chill to Zelphia. Her husband had often said that if the Confederacy or the Union declared war, he would join to fight for the south. Her husband had tried to prepare her for his possible departure but every morning, she lived in dread that the hammer would fall—and today it had.

Frank Murphy, still atop his horse, took off his hat. "Good morning, Mrs. McInery. It seems that war has been declared. I'm off to join and come for Mac."

Her husband came hurriedly from behind the house, still holding the axe he had been using to cut wood. "What's that you say, Frank? War's been declared?"

"Yeah, I was in town and heard it; everyone's whooping it up, leaving in droves. I come to get you to sign up with me."

"Let me get a few of my things and I'll go with you! And, Frank, go saddle up one of my horses, would you?" He turned to go into the house and saw his wife's eyes, full of fear. "Zelphia, I have to do this. You know that, sweetheart. We've talked about it often enough and you and I both knew this day would come." He left her stunned, standing in the yard while he went inside to pack a few of his things.

Zelphia slowly followed her husband into the house. He was in the bedroom, throwing a few belongings into a carpet bag.

"Charles, what about me? How will I live?"

Charles McInery faced his wife—he had often thought about this moment and believed he was prepared—but he found he wasn't. He loved his wife, adored her, and finally they had married after all those years. He had fallen in love with Zelphia when they were small children and for him there would never be any other woman but her. And he had worked and saved until he had enough money to buy this small farm so they could be married and he could support her. He had taken Zelphia away from her widowed mother who died soon after her only child left Macon. Together, Charles and Zelphia had worked the farm and bought a cow and chickens and two horses and made a go of it. And at night, as he held his lovely wife in his arms, Charles would quietly talk of buying more land and although, he told Zelphia, they would never be plantation owners, they would soon own quite a few acres of land, enough to leave to their sons. But now he had to go to war, and just like a woman, he thought, his wife didn't understand war and the importance of it to their way of life.

"Zelphia, the war won't be long. Why we'll have them Yanks beaten to their knees in a few months, I'm sure. Sweetheart, we knew this day would come eventually. We've talked about it so many times."

"No, you've talked about it—every time we're in town, you and all the other men stand around and discuss it and whenever a neighbor comes by, you men pontificate about state's rights and foreign allies and heaven knows what else. None of you ever discuss how your womenfolk or children will do without you." Her throat was tight with fear.

"Why don't you pack up the wagon and go to Macon. You have an aunt there—go there-you'll be safe." He turned back to opening the drawers and pulling out what he thought he might need."

"No," she said quietly. "This is our home. I'll stay here and wait for you."

Charles turned; same hard-headed Zelphia as always, he thought. He went to her and pulled her into his arms. "I'll come home to you." He pulled back and ran his fingers over the angles of her cheek and jaw. "You are a beauty, Zelphia, and the only woman I've ever loved." And then he kissed her and she felt as if her heart would break. It would be so long until she felt his mouth on hers again—if ever she would.

And Charles rode away, promising that he would write her the first chance he had. And then Zelphia went into the house and threw herself on the bed and sobbed for her loss. She was only nineteen and might be a widow by twenty if not sooner.

But Zelphia finally told herself that she had to go on, she had to live and so she did, milking the cow, taking care of the chickens and the horse. She couldn't take care of the planting but had a small vegetable garden and a rose garden that gave her great pleasure. Once a month, she would ride into the small town of Burnside a few miles away to sell her eggs and butter to the general store and buy enough corn meal, bacon, coffee, salt and sorghum to last until the next trip. She also spent her solitary evenings tatting lace that she would sell to the dressmaker. And she went about the process of living and she kept herself so busy that she could manage the loneliness of the farm until night fell. It was then that she cried and missed her husband. The nights were always the worst, especially the nights after her visit to town. It was there that she heard the news of the war and found out who had lost their husband, son or brother to a battle. So far, she had heard nothing about her husband and it had been close to four years since Charles had ridden away.

And tonight, there was a dying Union officer in her front yard and Zelphia knew she had to do something; if she was going to live with herself, she had to make an effort to help him. She placed the lantern on the porch and pondered how she was going to get him up the stairs and on the porch. Zelphia decided that she would drag him. She bent down to grasp his wrists and then she smelled him and recoiled.

"He smells worse than any skunk," she muttered to herself. Being alone so much, Zelphia found that she talked aloud to herself just to hear a voice break the silence, even if it was only her own. The man reeked of a combination of smells, all putrid. She wondered if he had swum through a latrine to escape. She grabbed his wrists again, wrinkling up her nose at the way he smelled and began to drag him, pulling upwards so that his drooping head didn't hit the ground. Even though the man was basically so emaciated that he had tied a rope around his waist to hold up his trousers, he was still heavy. She would brace her feet and drag him about a foot and then do it again and within a minute, she was soaked with sweat and short of breath. But she kept at it until she reached the bottom step of the porch. She sat heavily on the top step to recover from her efforts and looked at the Union soldier. "Damn you to hell," she said. "Why did you have to come by here?"

The lantern's glow showed even more how absolutely filthy the man was and her dragging him across the clay that made up the greater part of the soil, had made him even more filthy. The raw egg residue that was on his beard had turned red from the dirt that clung to it. And Zelphia also saw that he had begun to bleed again. "Well, it means he's still alive," she told herself consolingly. "Dead men don't bleed."

She stood and went back down the stairs and exerting her strength, she pulled him by his wrists and slowly managed to drag him up the three steps to the porch. She wondered how much damage she was doing by the rough handling, if she had fractured his ribs, but she didn't know what else to do, how else to manage him. Between brief rests, Zelphia finally managed to get the man on the porch although his tall, black boots still hung slightly off the porch and over the steps, and she dropped down into a rocking chair. She took off her wrap; it was damp with sweat and her gown was sticking to her. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes and then her expression eased; a gentle breeze had stirred up and its cooling caress was a relief. "Maybe it will rain," she whispered. "Maybe." And she slowly drifted off to a light sleep, her conscience appeased.

TBC


	3. Part 3

Part 3

The sun angling under the porch woke Zelphia; she sat upright, disoriented, and then she saw the man lying on the porch. He had rolled over at some time in the night and lay face up but a dried splotch of blood was on the wooden planks where he had lain before he managed to roll over. She expected there was another blood stain underneath him. "For the love of…," Zelphia said, "I'll have to scrub the porch—as if I don't have enough to do just to keep body and soul together."

She pulled back on her wrap, tying it. She kneeled beside him and looked him over. In the early morning heat, he seemed to smell even worse and she saw lice crawling out of his hair; he was covered with lice and welts from mosquito bites covered his arms that hung out from the rolled-up sleeves. She recoiled; she definitely didn't want any of his lice to get on her.

She stood for a moment, considering what to do. He was too weak to take a bath and covered with vermin as he was, she wasn't certain she wanted him in her house. Besides, he was a Yankee and from what she had heard about Yankees, once he recovered his strength, he would rape her, slit her throat and then burn her farm to the ground. Everyone in town related the stories they had heard, how at one plantation, the invading army had smashed children's heads against walls and then, after all of them sated their lust on the women and while the women were still alive, used their bayonets to slit them open from their throats to their genitals

Although Zelphia never really believed all the stories about the Union soldiers and their lust and cruelty, she didn't want to let down her guard. She wasn't naïve and knew that it was common for an enemy to be demonized but she also knew that just because one was a soldier, it didn't mean he had scruples or was a man of honor. Besides, this man before her with his swarthy skin and black hair and beard looked as if he could be evil.

Zelphia left the man on the porch and went in to quickly wash and dress. Her hair was sticking to the back of her neck and the cool water from the kitchen pump was refreshing after her exertions the previous night. She made a pot of coffee, went to dress, pin up her hair and put on an apron. She dropped a bar of lye soap in one apron pocket. She then went out the back kitchen door and filled a pail halfway with water. She went back through the house and out to the porch and stopped. The man was sitting up, his face white, and it was obvious that he had a fever; his eyes glittered and he was sweating profusely.

"Please, ma'am, may I have some water?" He held his left side with his other hand and Zelphia could see that it was sticky with new blood

"Mister," she said, "you're going to bleed to death if we don't staunch it."

"I know," he said weakly. "But I'm going to die one way or another and I may as well die trying to get back to my regiment."

Zelphia stared at him and then went to the kitchen and brought back a coffee cup. She dipped it into the pail and handed it to the man who took it with shaking hands and swallowed the water quickly, half of it running down his chin. He handed the empty cup to her and she dipped it again. He drank another cup of water but when she gave him the third, he poured it over his head.

"Thank you, Ma'am." He handed her the cup. "If I could have another drink please and maybe you could spare some food. I'll be gone as soon as I recover a bit. I tried to stand but…well, I couldn't. I'm about as weak as a newborn colt."

The man drank another cup of water and looked at her gratefully. "I'm sorry about the eggs; I was just so hungry. If I had money I'd pay you for them."

"There were two soldiers looking for you yesterday," she said. "They're going to shoot you or hang you when they find you."

He gave a small chuckle. "I'm sure they will," he said.

Zelphia felt that she was looking at a dead man. But there was something about his smile that made him look benevolent and gentle. But she didn't trust him; many an evil man hid behind a smile.

"I'll get you some food." She turned at the door. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sorghum? Cream?"

"Just a little sorghum, thank you." And when the woman walked away, the man grimaced in pain; he knew that his wound was becoming infected and it would kill him if he did nothing about it. But he was a Yankee soldier and her enemy. And she was a southern beauty with a lovely voice but eyes like steel. He had seen eyes like that behind a rifle on the battlefield and he knew that if she suspected him of anything, she would, as she had threatened the night before, blow him clean apart.

The man gratefully took the steaming cup from her and the cold cornbread and forgetting any elegance or grace, wolfed down the cornbread, the crumbs sticking to his beard, and slurped the coffee. He was used to not eating much; in Andersonville, food was scarce and in the year that his regiment had been in Fort Sumter, a great deal of the men under his command had already died. Most had died of starvation, dysentery, gangrene or pneumonia. Two men had been shot in the dead zone trying to escape and one had been murdered by another prisoner. He and the four men left from his regiment, hanged the murderer one night under his command; the prisoners had begun to exact justice on their own since the stockade commander didn't seem to know how to do so—or didn't care. Commander Wirz's heavy handed justice was to be avoided as even the easiest punishment often resulted in death .

Zelphia watched the soldier eat; he was like an animal, bolting food, not even bothering to taste it. She sensed that below the surface, he was dangerous, maybe even cruel, and that it had been put there by the war. She wondered what her husband would be like when he came home—if he came home. And Zelphia wondered again about this man, if he had a wife longing for his return, children who cried for their father.

The soldier agreed that his wound needed cleaning and so he started to take off his shirt but the fabric stuck to it, the dried blood working as an adhesive. Zelphia retrieved a knife and slit his shirt off. She was nervous that he would grab the knife from her and do violence upon her but then he was so weak and thin that she felt that she was relatively safe. His ribs stood out and his stomach was hollowed. Zelphia had never seen anyone so close to starving.

The bullet had cleanly passed through him but she suspected that it had nicked a rib or two; he was in a great deal of pain and the flesh around the wound was inflamed. When she pressed around it, she felt the heat of the wound.

"I'm going to have to clean that. Until the infection goes away, it can't be closed." She brushed a louse off her hand. "You're crawling with bugs. I can't have you in a bed like that. I'll get some blankets I can burn afterwards and let you sleep on my floor." Zelphia stood up. "If you want, once you're strong enough, you can bathe and use some strong lye soap; that'll kill anything. Besides, you smell worse than any outhouse." He looked at her, his soul in his eyes. "I'll get a bottle of whiskey and some rags. I've got some sulphur powder too. Hopefully, that will stop the infection and help you heal—and we can also use it on your head to kill the lice. But I'm telling you now, once you can walk, you have to go or I'll march you out to the piney woods and shoot you down and not even give it a second thought." And he looked at her like a dog that was grateful not to be kicked—this time. "Oh," she said, her hand on the doorknob, "I might as well call you by a name."

"Cartwright. Captain Adam Cartwright, Company B, Sherman's 98th Western Volunteers Regiment."

"Western? From what state?" It intrigued her that someone from a state out west that wasn't even involved in the war would volunteer to join the fighting. To her, it made no sense. But then she thought, men made no sense at all—there was no understanding their manner of logic since it always sprang from a sense of defending honor and manhood. They were foolish because when a man died, there was no honor involved—just rot and decay and the tears of those who had loved them.

"Nevada territory. Whether it's a state yet, I don't know. And your name?"

"You're not going to be here long enough for it to make any difference," she said. Zelphia almost asked Captain Cartwright if he had family back in Nevada—a wife—but decided not to. She didn't really want to know; it would humanize him and she preferred to think of him as a desperate, dangerous, starving animal that she could send away as soon as possible—or shoot.

TBC


	4. Part 4

Part 4

"But, Adam, I don't know that the war concerns us enough that you should go and risk your life for a cause that doesn't touch us."

"But it does touch us—it touches everyone in the country. You read the papers, Pa. You know what's going on. It's our responsibility the same as it is everyone else's. We can't just ignore the rest of the world and live out here, hidden from reality. Don't you see what's happening? The south stands for so many things that go against my personal beliefs—secession, slavery, a way of life that depends on the blood and sweat of others. I believe in the preservation of the Union strongly enough to fight for it. I've ignored my feelings long enough and I can't live with my conscience anymore—I have to join up."

Adam put one hand to his mouth; he was too upset to eat even though Hop Sing had prepared steak that was so tender that Hoss said it melted in the mouth like butter. Adam looked around the table. Both Hoss and Joe had stopped eating as well and were looking down at their plates. They hated when their father and Adam clashed. When Adam and Ben Cartwright locked horns, it was never pleasant.

"Excuse me," Joe said and standing up, put his napkin beside his plate and walked out the front door to the porch.

Adam had finally made up his mind that he was leaving in the morning to sign up with the Western Volunteers. He knew how upset his father and brothers would be but he wondered the most about Joe. Due to Joe's mother having been born in New Orleans and still having distant relatives there, he held southern sympathies; a whole culture's way of life shouldn't be destroyed, especially since his mother had painted such beautiful stories of gracious living and a pleasant way of life. And Joe had always promised himself that he would visit New Orleans but hadn't yet done so. He wondered if the elegant city would be the same his mother had known when he finally did visit.

Nevertheless, Adam felt so very strongly and had spent sleepless nights before he came to his final decision. He didn't want to leave his family but knew he had to—there was a cause that called him.

Ben folded his hands, his elbows on the table, and rested his head on them as if he were praying. Hoss peeked over at his father and then glanced at Adam who just shook his head.

"Pa," Adam said more gently. "Please don't make it harder for me than it already is. I've argued with myself for months now but I can't just go on this way, behaving as if the war doesn't exist. I have to respect myself enough to do what I feel I must—no matter what the cost."

"Even if the cost is your life?" Ben gazed down the table at Adam.

"Yes. Even if the cost is my life. As Dickens wrote, "It's a far, far better thing that I do…"

Ben slammed his fist on the table. "Don't quote Dickens to me! This isn't a novel, this is actual life and death. I can't understand…" And then Ben, his voice breaking, threw his napkin on the table and left to go upstairs to his room. Hoss and Adam sat in silence and they heard the door slam upstairs.

Adam spoke quietly. "I tried to think of another way to break it to him, Hoss, but I wanted to tell all of you at the same time."

Hoss pushed his plate away. "I thought you'd join up sooner or later. I guess it was that argument with Hutch last month in town when he told you that iffen you felt that way, whyn't you fightin' for the North that pushed you."

"He did make me think about my morals and beliefs, what I stand for, and I realized that I was a coward—I was afraid. That was basically it—I was afraid. I don't relish war—I'm not a fool-but there are times when a man has to fight for his beliefs, scared or not."

"You scared of joinin' and fightin'?"

"I could shit my pants at the thought of it."

Hoss chuckled. "I don't understand you, Adam. I know you was born up north but I don't see how that makes you one of the Northerners and part of the Union. Hell, you was only there for a few weeks as a baby."

"It's not that, it's what I believe in and what I feel needs defending or destroying."

The brothers sat in silence for a few moments while Hoss, his brow furrowed, sat and thought about what Adam had said. "I should join too," Hoss said.

"No!" Adam said a little too forcefully.

"What?" Hoss looked at Adam and saw something akin to panic in his brother's eyes. "Why not? I kinda agree with your opinions more than the supporters of the South."

"Don't, Hoss—don't join. Stay here. It would break Pa's heart to have both of us gone and if anything happened to you, well, I don't even want to think of it." Adam took a deep breath. Putting himself in the line of fire was one thing, but he desperately didn't want that for either of his brothers; he couldn't even bear the thought that they should suffer in battle or be killed.

"Okay, Adam. Settle down. I don't think Pa's worried 'bout me so much as he's 'fraid Joe's gonna sign up to fight for the Confederacy."

"I'm afraid of that too," Adam said quietly. "I better go talk to Joe." Adam slowly pushed back his chair. "And you better eat, boy," Adam said pointing to Hoss. "If one of us doesn't finish dinner, Hop Sing's gonna quit and go back to China."

Hoss tried to smile. He had no appetite but knew that Adam was right; no one else had eaten their dinner so Hoss pulled his plate closer and proceeded to finish his steak and fried potatoes but it all tasted like ashes. The world had been turned upside down.

Joe sat on one of the porch chairs, the table where they played checkers beside him, the board and pieces still set out.

"Up for a game?" Adam asked. Joe looked up and gave Adam a half-grin.

"Not tonight, Adam. Besides, I never could beat you."

"What if I throw the game like I used to when you were a kid."

"What?" Joe said, in mock surprise. "You mean I didn't really win all those games from you?

Adam smiled. "You're thinking of joining up, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I really wish you wouldn't go, Adam, but—well, you've made me do a lot of thinking and I-I think that I agree with you that if a man believes in something strong enough, well, he should be willing to die for it."

"Hopefully I'm not going to die," Adam said, trying to make a light comment. "At least that's not the reason I'm going."

"I hope not too." Joe looked over at his brother who had taken the chair next to his. "I think I should sign up—but I can't sign up with you, Adam. I thought I was neutral on all this, always tried to be, but…"

Adam leaned toward Joe. "Listen to me. One of us going is enough. Stay here."

"But, Adam, what's all this talk about fighting for what you believe? Is it just talk? Are you the only one who can have such high aspirations?"

"Just what do you believe, Joe? Tell me. Tell me your beliefs."

"Well, I can't put them into words. I'm not like you, Adam. I have trouble…"

"Listen to me, Joe. We're brothers but we're different people. I know what you believe in. You believe in the preservation of life and the delights of the sunrise and sunset and a fast horse and a faster woman." Joe smiled at that. "Oh, Joe, you believe in the Ponderosa and your place on it. This war isn't yours—it's not your passion. Besides, if we would both leave, I don't know what it would do to Pa."

"But what will it do to me if I stay? I may be the baby of the family but I can't help but think that my mother would want me to fight for what she believed in. I owe it to her, Adam, and I have to do what I believe is right." Joe pushed his chair back and went in the house and Adam sat outside and wondered what consequences he had put into action.

Adam knocked on his father's bedroom door. "Pa, can I talk to you?" Adam waited and there was no answer so he turned the knob and opened the door. His father was sitting on his bed facing the window, his back to the door. "Pa, I don't want to leave things this way. I wish you'd understand." Adam walked around to see his father's face and gingerly sat on the bed beside his father.

"I'll never understand, Adam. Never. I've tried to make sense of this war but I can't. If it were a foreign invasion or a revolution against a cruel and unjust government, that I could understand, but to take arms against your fellow countrymen, that I can't understand—I simply can't no matter how much I try."

The two men sat side by side in silence. Then Adam spoke. "Even if you can't ever understand, at least try to see my point of view, why I have to join. It's a matter of honor—my own. I find that I've been a hypocrite, saying one thing while sitting here safe and warm."

"That's just it, Adam. Men are out there dying every day for a cause that some of them don't even understand—the waste of life—the horrid waste of life. I always feared that this day would come and I always knew it would—either you or Joe—or both of you." Ben looked to Adam, his eyes pleading.

"I know that's what you're most in fear of, Joe signing up if I do."

"Yes. You know how Joe is. He reacts to everything without thinking and he's old enough to ride out and there's nothing I can do to stop him-or stop you, can I?"

"No. I've made up my mind. Actually, I had decided on it a few days ago."

"That's when you went quiet. I should have known." Ben put his hand on Adam's shoulder. "I can't say that I give my approval or my consent, but I do give you my blessings. I suppose that this is one of the agonies of being a father and of loving another human. And…I don't say it, son, but I do. I love you, boy."

"I know you do, Pa." Adam put his arm around his father's shoulder and the two men looked out the window at the falling night.

It was early morning, not even light yet. Adam was packing a small bag when Joe came knocking at his door.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, you can." Adam waited. He had hoped that Joe would come to see him before he left, that he would have another chance to convince Joe to stay on the Ponderosa.

"Last night, I went and saw Pa. I was going to tell him that I was joining the Confederacy for my mother's sake. Adam, I haven't ever seen Pa like that. I think he had been crying. He said that he didn't know what he would do if you never came back."

"I know how Pa feels about my going. I wish that I didn't feel that I had to but I do. What about you, Joe? You said that you 'were' going to tell him."

"I just couldn't."

Adam sighed in relief, his shoulders dropping.

"I guess you were right all along, Adam. You know me better than I know myself. I do belong here. I know that Pa needs me."

"Of course he does, Joe." The two brothers looked at one another and Adam could see how emotional Joe was. "Besides," Adam said, "with me gone, it'll take both you and Hoss to do my work to keep the place up." Joe smiled and for the first time in days, Adam's heart lightened when he saw the grin on his brother's face.

"You wait," Joe said. "I'll bet we'll find that you actually did nothing around here." And they smiled at one another but their eyes were sad. And once Joe left, Adam felt the full weight of what he was about to do press on him again and fear gripped his bowels. He wished that he were an idyllic young man believing that he was going out on a lark and would return with a chest laden with medals and the women falling all over the war hero. But being a grown man and having given this much thought, Adam knew that he might never return home, may die on some forgotten battlefield with his family never knowing what became of him. And Adam sat heavily on his bed and questioned again if he was doing the right thing.

"Goodbye, Pa," Adam said, holding the reins of one of the cutting horses. Adam had chosen one of the less valued horses to ride since he had no idea whether he would be infantry or not. He had already said goodbye to his brothers and they had stepped back. Hop Sing had packed a sack with food for his trip and said goodbye to Adam in the kitchen, slipping Adam a smooth, round piece of green jade with a hole in the center. "You keep with you, always. Jade good luck, keep you safe." Adam thanked Hop Sing and slipped the jade disc in his shirt pocket. Adam wasn't superstitious but he knew that every time he touched it, he would remember the green of the Ponderosa pines and his family which included Hop Sing.

Adam put out his hand to his father. Ben took Adam's hand but instead of shaking it, he pulled his son to him. Ben wanted to remember everything—the way Adam smelled, the color of his hair, his eyes, his smile. He knew he would miss those things but what he would miss the most was Adam's voice. He would miss Adam playing on his guitar and his singing but most of all, Adam's deep, resonant laughter. Reluctantly, Ben released his son.

"I'll return home, Pa. I will." Adam mounted his horse, his voice about to break. "All of you know how hard-headed I am—I'll return after all this is over and I expect to see all of you here, waiting for me. And have Hop Sing bake a cake." His horse was eager to go and Adam held it back. "But, Joe, if you decide to go ahead and marry Martha Collins, I better find that I have at least one nephew or niece running around when I get back." And smiling, Adam rode off, his family waving goodbye. But as soon as he had his back to them, the smile dropped off his face and he became solemn. Adam wondered if he was riding to his death.

TBC


	5. Part 5

Part 5

Zelphia put a few blankets on the floor in front of the fire and a pillow, her husband's pillow. She had thought about it, about this man resting his head where her husband had rested his, but decided that she would allow it. She could air it out after this man had either left or died. But she knew that she really wouldn't—she'd burn it. It would stink like this Yankee Cartwright and she didn't want his smell in the bed with her.

"I made a bed for you on the floor," she said coldly, returning to the porch. She had a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a canister of sulphur powder in the other. She had a few handkerchiefs in her apron pocket, a wash cloth and a strip of muslin. He looked up at her, still sitting against the porch railing.

"Can you stand up?" Zelphia wasn't going to help him; she couldn't bear the thought of touching him.

"I think so." He grabbed onto the porch railing and grimacing, pulled himself upright, his muscles visibly working under his skin, his shoulder blades sharply jutting outward. Sweat streamed down his face and body. He was breathing heavily with the effort.

"Let me clean that wound out here." He said nothing, concentrating on remaining upright by grabbing onto a post, grasping it high with both his hands and resting against it. "I'll clean your back first." She saw lice crawling at the nape of his neck and also on his body, particularly under his arms. She considered that as hirsute as he was, the lice must enjoy him.

She put the washcloth in the pail of water with the lye soap, worked up suds, and began to lightly wash the wound. She glanced at his face; the soap obviously burned but he made no sound, just clenched his jaw. Zelphia refreshed the lathered cloth and washed his back, watching the lice die under the harsh soap. Again and again she rinsed out the cloth and soaped it again until she had washed his whole back and the nape of his neck and the dead lice floated on top of the water in the pail. Then she went around to the front of him and saw that he was clinging desperately to the post, his face expressing frustration and fatigue.

"I'll work faster," she said, "but I need clean water." He nodded. Zelphia dumped the pail on the dirt and then went to fill it from the kitchen pump. She came back and washed the wound and tried to kill some of the lice on his chest but he began to shake with the effort of holding himself up. Besides, his trousers were so loose that they had dropped down slightly on his hips and it seemed that only his angular hip bones were holding them up.

She soaked a cloth in the whiskey and pressed it to the wound on his back and he jerked slightly but the whiskey dried quickly along with the sting. Then she did the same thing to the exit wound of the bullet. His teeth began to chatter despite the clenching of his jaws. Zelphia knew she had to hurry; he was close to collapsing and the water, cooling his body as it dried, was causing chills.

She shook some sulphur powder on a handkerchief that she had folded over and pressed it against the wound. "Hold this here," she ordered. Adam did, his hand shaking. Zelphia did the same to the wound in his back and holding the handkerchief to the wound, she pulled out the muslin strip and began to wrap it around him, trying to keep the handkerchiefs in place. Finally she had finished and tied off the strip. She wiped her brow with the back of one hand; she was as soaked with sweat as he while he desperately tried to remain standing.

"The blankets are in front of the fireplace to your right. Go on." She stepped back as he staggered into the house, almost falling against the doorframe. Then he dropped to his knees. Zelphia began to reach for him but stopped herself.

Adam looked up at her. "I'm sorry. I thought I could but I…"

She did nothing; just watched him and waited. She had already done more than she should. After all, he was the enemy and Zelphia was sure that aiding the enemy was treason and might even get her shot. She had to keep reminding herself that this man was a hated foe, that he had killed Southerners, maybe one of her neighbors or even her husband. Perhaps her husband was dead because of him and she was helping this man to survive.

Adam pulled himself up again by using the doorframe and almost toppling over, he managed to get into the house and by holding onto the mantle, he finally reached the blankets, dropping on them and closed his eyes. Zelphia walked in but left the door open.

"He's going to stink up my whole house, he and the sulphur powder," she said to herself. She shook sulphur powder around the four edges of the blankets making a barrier against the lice. Zelphia considered it was like casting a spell, shaking on magic powder. "If only it would make him disappear." Then she went in the kitchen to put up the sulphur powder and whiskey and washed her hands and even though he hadn't come close to her, her head itched. God forbid she should pick up any lice from him. Then, after thinking on it, she gathered up all the knives and hid them under her mattress and picking up the shotgun and tying on her sunbonnet, she went out to take care of her morning chores.

A little after noon, Zelphia went back into the house through the kitchen door, propping the rifle beside it. She pumped out water and cooled the back of her neck and face and then drank a long draught of water. Wiping her hands on her apron, she went out to the parlor and looked at the man who lay as if dead. Zelphia didn't know if she hoped he was or not but when she walked closer and saw that he was sweating, she knew what she had hoped for; she was disappointed. If only he had died.

As she was leaning over him, his eyes flew open and he looked at her. She stepped back.

"Please. Water. May I have some water, ma'am? Please." He stretched out a hand to her but she backed off even more. He filled her with revulsion. His chest was covered with black hair and since his trousers had dropped down slightly, she saw that he had black hair swirling around his navel. He looked at her, beseeching her with his eyes and Zelphia hated him. But without saying a word, she went in the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water and returned with a glass. She filled the glass and watched while he struggled to sit up so that he could drink it. He finally propped himself on one forearm to a semi-sitting position and took the glass with shaking hands. Zelphia found herself helping him, putting her hand under the glass in case he dropped it, and he quickly downed the water.

He fell back down onto the blankets. "Thank you," he said. "You're very kind to me."

Zelphia didn't know what to say; she didn't want his gratitude and she wasn't helping him out of kindness but conscience. She hated this man with the dark hair and the feverish eyes filled with gratitude, Zelphia wanted him to know how very much she detested him so she picked up the pitcher and spat in it and then sat it and the glass back down. Zelphia smugly glowered at the man lying on the blankets but he still looked up at her, grateful for what she had done for him and suddenly she was ashamed. He propped himself back up and shakily poured himself another glass of water from the pitcher, spilling some on the wooden planks of the floor, and raised it to his lips.

"Don't," she said as she reached out and pulled the glass from him. He said nothing, just looked at her. She picked up the pitcher with her other hand and took them both to the kitchen. She was shaking so badly that she almost dropped the glass pitcher. Zelphia went into the bedroom to control her emotions. She hated the man but he needed her help. And he was so thankful for anything, for the pain of the lye soap and the whiskey on his wounds, for the rough, wool blankets on the hard floor and the dry cornbread she had thrown to him instead of the chickens. And she had been cruel to him. Zelphia sat on the bed and hugged herself and began to cry. Hebrews 13:2 came to mind: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

What if he had been sent by God to test her? If he had been, she had failed. She had failed miserably. Not only had she been merely inhospitable, she had left him to die in the yard, wished him dead, spat in his water and then walked away without making amends. Zelphia swore to herself that she would be kinder to him, help him to recover and hopefully, send him on his way. Where he went after that, she didn't care. He had said that he wanted to rejoin his regiment, as foolish as that sounded to her. Maybe he would be shot trying to find his way back to them, maybe he would succumb to a snake bite or some other natural mishap. And if he did finally rejoin his regiment, he could be killed in battle. But that was of no concern to her.

Zelphia rose slowly from the bed and went to the kitchen to fill the pitcher again. She went out to the parlor and saw that the man was beginning to shiver again so she squatted and pulled the blanket up over him. He opened his eyes, still grateful to her.

"I'm ashamed for what I did," she said as she placed the pitcher and glass on the floor beside the blanket. "It's fresh water. I'll bring you some cornbread soaked in buttermilk." And his eyes followed her as she walked away.

TBC


	6. Part 6

Part 6

Captain Adam Cartwright's detachment was captured at the Battle of Fort Wagner in South Carolina. They were overwhelmed and finally were surrounded by Confederate soldiers, cut off from the rest of the retreating Union soldiers.

"What do we do, Cap'n?" The soldiers looked to him for direction and Adam felt the responsibility weigh heavily. He knew that if he told them to not surrender, to fight to the last man, they would. But Adam also knew that he couldn't ask them to just lie down and die, to walk straight into the enemy fire.

Except for one soldier, they were all so young and Adam saw so much promise for them after the war. They still had years ahead of them and one private who was barely seventeen, hadn't even known a woman yet. The Captain looked at his men and wanted so much for them all to live, to survive this war and go on and be able to tell war stories to their grandchildren.

"We surrender," Captain Cartwright said.

"If you want us to fight, Cap'n, we will. Just give the word," one of the soldiers said and the others nodded in agreement. Adam looked at his men who were holding their rifles and waiting for his order.

Captain Cartwright's men had unflagging loyalty to him; they would have followed him to storm the gates of hell and unseat Satan had he so ordered. Some of the other men in the Western Regiment were familiar with the Cartwright family, with their wealth and prestige and yet, the Cap'n understood the common soldier and never seemed anything but one of them. He fought alongside his men unlike so many officers who gave the orders and then hid in the back lines; some officers even deserted their men, but the Cap'n never did. He ate what they ate, slept where they slept, had diarrhea along with them and was shot once and had been slashed by a bayonet in hand to hand fighting, he had been so close to the enemy. And both times, his men watched as the medic stitched him up without even whiskey to dull the pain.

But what caused his men's blind loyalty is that Captain Cartwright had put himself in danger many times to rescue one of them who had been trapped by enemy fire. And those men of the regiment who died, he fully mourned, saying prayers for their souls. The men loved their Cap'n.

"Throw down your rifles," he told them." We're surrendering." The men looked at one another through the smoke still hanging in the air from the all the firing of munitions and then threw down their rifles, their Captain following, and placed their hands on the back of their heads. The Confederate soldiers, who had been holding their rifles at ready in the distance, rapidly approached them, searched them and removed any personal property they had. Then roughly pushed them into the rebel camp where they were held for the rest of the day and night. The next day, they were marched to a train depot where they were loaded into cattle cars and for a day and a half they rode along the rails without water or food. When the train stopped, they were at Andersonville Station and within a short time Captain Cartwright and his men were catalogued into Fort Sumter Prison, also known as Andersonville. And over the year Captain Cartwright was there, he wondered if he had made the best decision to surrender and if he and his men wouldn't be better off had they fought to death.

Adam thought that in his thirty-three years, he had seen and experienced the worst of mankind but in the stockade, he truly lost faith in the natural humanity of man. All the prisoners lived in small tents no matter what the weather conditions or the season. By the time Adam and his men had arrived, they could have no more camp fires as too many prisoners had tried to escape while gathering firewood so in the cold weather, the men had to huddle to stay warm but it wasn't rare for one of the men to have died by the time morning came. Whether it was so cold that it snowed or whether it rained in deluges, they had to stay in the tents that were so small that a man couldn't stand up and were no protection from the cold wind or the wet when the the ground turned to muck; no grass grew anymore.

The worst in the camp, other than the Camp Commander, Wirz, were the raiders, roaming groups of soldiers who took advantage of the others. They demanded others' rations and would even kill to get what they wanted. Due to that, a group of regulators sprung up, a vigilante group that begged and pleaded with the officers to take command of their men again and keep them under control. The other regulators begged Adam to join them; they saw a man with a natural authority and dignity but Adam refused; he wouldn't join a group that appeared as ruthless as the soldiers they wished to control. Besides, his men were already under command—they followed him blindly.

Adam's regiment, the few men that were left of it, banded together in a group of tents and basically kept to themselves. They shared their food and when they became ill, they tended to one another since there was no help to be found in the camp hospital. But one night, Adam stole into the infirmary and took some sulpha powder and a few bandages as well as a bottle of morphine and a syringe. One of his men was dying from gangrene and Adam wanted to ease him out of this world. It was the youngest soldier who was now only eighteen and was being eaten up with gangrene. Adam felt that if he could make the young soldier's few hours on earth less painful then he would. The sulpha powder and the bandages were for two other of his men who had infections; he didn't want them to go the same way.

So Adam injected the morphine into the youth and held the boy's hand, thinking of Joe. Adam said a silent prayer that Joe was still on the Ponderosa and not lying on some distant battlefield dying in the mud but if he were, Adam hoped that someone was comforting him.

"Cap'n," the boy said as he grasped Adam's hand and looked up at him with fevered eyes. "Cap'n, I'm so afraid. Don't let me die alone—don't let me."

"I won't leave you, Andy. I'll stay right here." And Adam did-even after the boy died. And his men dug a grave in the morning on the far edge of the camp and Adam prayed over the grave. "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." But Adam didn't feel it in his heart.

The men of Adam's regiment, at his encouragement, made every effort to escape, even to return to another regiment and continue to fight, but all had failed. They had dug a tunnel but had been betrayed; there was a Confederate rifle waiting for Adam as he reached the other side. He and his men were marched back into the camp in front of the other prisoners who silently watched them as they were pushed and shoved and Adam, as their captain, was struck with a rifle butt when reached his tent. But Adam was sure he knew who had betrayed them so that night, while others slept, Adam crept to the man's tent, dragged him out and bloodied his face and hissed that the next time they were betrayed, he would drown the man in the camp's sewage. Others had seen the beating but no one said anything; their regard for the dark-haired captain only grew and they knew not to cross him or to harm his men because he was quick to wreak vengeance. Some of Adam's men had been shot while trying to escape when they worked outside the camp, two others, shot in the dead zone—an area around the camp.

And food was scarce. There was a creek that ran through the middle of the camp that was to serve as fresh drinking water and bathing but some men used it as a latrine and dumped filth and garbage in it. The Confederate guards dumped rubbish from the kitchen in the area that fed the swamp and men died from the unsanitary conditions. And although a hospital had been built, medicine was lacking and it became easier to chop or saw off a limb than try to take care of a simple infection.

There were gambling tents where prisoners lost what few belongings that had been allowed to keep, even losing clothing that was in better shape than those who won and there was death everywhere. Adam had been on many burial tasks, burying both the young and the older although after a while, all the men looked worn and old, some losing most of their teeth to pyorrhea.

And then the news came to the camp that Sherman was reaching further in the south and tenseness grew among the prisoners. If Sherman was so close then the war must soon be at its end. All that would be left then was Florida. Therefore, the commander of Andersonville was ordered to lighten the population; most of the prisoners would have to be transferred to another prison camp and it was during this time when they were being marched out to the depot, that Adam saw a chance to escape—and he took it.

He had put quite a bit of distance between himself and the trudging line of prisoners when someone called out that one of the prisoners had escaped. Adam heard the ballyhoo in the distance and ran even faster, his lungs burning. He had no idea where his strength came from, where he found the energy to run but he did. Shots rang out behind him and Adam felt a sting in his left side. The impact dropped him to his knees—he had been shot. He quickly rose to his feet and ran again, his side burning and he felt a heavy moistness on his shirt but he didn't stop. It had been close to dark when he escaped and as soon as darkness fell completely, he allowed himself to slow down and then finally drop at the bottom of a tall Georgia pine. The smell reminded him of the Ponderosa pines back home in Nevada, the slightly acrid smell of the resin and the unmistakable odor of the long needles. He lay back against the trunk of the tree, wondering if he was going to bleed to death sitting out in a Georgia pine forest. "Oh, Pa," he said, "I'm sorry for any pain I've caused you. I am…I am so sorry." His head was throbbing, his gunshot wound burned as if someone held a hot coal to it, and he was thirsty. And finally, Adam slept heavily, woke in the early morning, and walked further west through the woods. But it wasn't until the next night that he came across an isolated farm and saw the chicken coop and his stomach cried out for food. So as he sucked raw eggs, he was captured, not by a Confederate soldier but by a beautiful woman who seemed to be harder than any Confederate enemy he had crossed paths with yet.

TBC


	7. Part 7

Part 7

Zelphia opened her eyes, listening. Even with her door closed and bolted, she could hear that the man on the floor of her parlor was making noise, talking, moaning. She sat up and listened intently. He was crying out what to her, sounded like orders, commands. Zelphia rolled out of bed, put on her wrap and barefooted, went out to the parlor. She lit a lamp on a corner table and saw that the Yankee officer was moaning, talking, his eyes still closed, and reliving some sort of horror. He would arch his back and cry out as if in agony.

"His fever must be raging," Zelphia thought. He was soaked in sweat and tossing on the blankets, his words, unintelligible. Zelphia quickly went to the kitchen and filled the pail again with water and taking a dishrag, went back out to him. She kneeled beside him and felt his forehead; she was surprised at how hot his skin was and when she touched him, his eyes flew open. They were glazed and although he looked at her, he didn't seem to really see her.

"I said no, hold back. Hold back—it's a trap. It's a trap," he babbled to her, pleading with her. Zelphia placed the cool rag on his forehead and he turned his head to shake off the rag.

"Give them the water—give it to them," he begged, unaware of who she was or his surroundings.

Zelphia understood his state of mind and tried to calm him. "It's all right—there's enough water for everyone." She reached for the pitcher that stood half empty and poured him some more water. "Here. Drink this. There's enough water for all your men."

He looked up at her and although his eyes still seemed vacant, he struggled to sit. He managed to raise himself but began to falter, his arms trembling. Zelphia, without thinking, reached out and slipped one arm around him to help him sit up, holding the glass to his lips with the other. He grasped her hand in both of his and began to gulp, the water dripping onto his beard. He finished the glass and with a sigh, he dropped back down.

Zelphia sat back and then looked at him. She hadn't wanted to see him as human, as caring about others or as being honorable and brave but she knew he was, knew he had been through things that took bravery and commitment to survive and as the night wore on and he struggled with the fever that caused him to either rage or plead—not for himself but for the men under his command, she listened and tried to make sense of his ramblings while laving him with the cool water. And although he spoke often to people by name-commanders, generals, privates, what sounded like his horse, and a man named Joe and his father whom he called "Pa," Zelphia noted that he never called for a woman, never spoke a female name and for some reason, she was glad.

And a few hours later, she sat on the floor, her back resting against the sofa in the parlor, watching the man finally sleep restfully, she tried to examine her feelings about this Yankee on her parlor floor. She hated him; he was her enemy. His job was to kill Southerners and she was a Southerner. When he was well, he may even kill her—rape her and then vivisect her and laugh as she slowly died. But she knew that was foolishness.

"Don't let your imagination run away with you, Zelphia," she told herself. She watched his chest rise and fall as he gently breathed and then she felt tears fall unbidden down her cheeks; her heart broke for him. All that he wanted was to live to return to his regiment. He wasn't a deserter although she could well understand if he was. But Zelphia couldn't understand how any man who had seen what he obviously had, would want to return to battle. But he did and she wondered what drove him; he must be a complex man. And Zelphia thought that if this were another place and another time, she might have even fallen in love with him. He had eyes that revealed his soul, deep and urgent and his mouth, even beneath the overgrown mustache, was soft and curved—a tender mouth, curved softly like a young child's—such an innocent mouth that was in contrast to the heavy beard and brows and the mass of unruly black hair.. Zelphia wondered how it would be to kiss him, to feel that mouth on hers.

"You need some sleep," she told herself. "You're beginning to have delusions and your husband's been gone too long." And Zelphia stood up and stretched her back. The sun was just beginning to rise. So Zelphia put on a fresh pot of coffee and went to wash but suddenly she wanted to wash off the sweat of the past few days so taking a towel and a fresh dress, she went to the back to stand in the tub and wash her whole body and her hair. As she lathered up, Zelphia wondered what Captain Adam Cartwright would think should he see her in the all in all. Would he like the way she looked? Would he enjoy her body as her husband had? "Zelphia, you're a fool." And she quickly finished washing, shivering as she poured the bucket of cold water over herself, and dried off.

Zelphia went to her bedroom and sat down at her vanity to brush out her hair. Over the time her husband had been gone, Zelphia hadn't really looked at herself but this morning, she did. She wondered if the Captain thought she was pretty. Her husband had always said that she was beautiful and many people had remarked how lovely she was but it had been so long; men didn't compliment a married woman. But she wanted to be pretty for the man named Adam Cartwright. "You're so silly—thinking you're a young girl," Zelphia told herself but smiled at her reflection. She braided her hair and then, hesitating, reached for her powder and powdered her face and décolleté. She then looked at the bottle of rosewater on the vanity and impetuously opened it and splashed some on. "Maybe it will cover his smell," she rationalized. Then Zelphia stood up and smoothed the skirts of her faded chintz dress. She was tempted to change into a lovelier one but stopped herself—he wouldn't notice anyway.

Adam heard Zelphia's skirts rustling and then the smell of roses wafted through the room. He eagerly struggled to raise himself on one elbow and looked for her as she came into view.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said weakly but he gave a small grin.

"Your fever has broken. Are you hungry?" She didn't return his smile.

"Yes, ma'am. I'd appreciate some of that coffee I smell. It must be good and strong if I can smell it over myself. I guess I'm like having a pig in the parlor." Adam tried to laugh but his voice caught; he found that he was close to crying and realized that his emotions were too near the surface—and it was because of her. She reminded him that he could still feel, that his heart wasn't cold, wasn't dead in his chest. She had been kind to the enemy—him, and he felt he didn't deserve it. He had tried to shoot, to kill, to slaughter as many Confederates as he could and urged his men to do so as well but she had helped him, brought him back to life and this morning as she crouched down to feel his head, she stirred his blood. She made him feel the urgings of desire again and he didn't even know her name.

TBC


	8. Part 8

_I just want to thank the guest reviewers who have complimented the story or told me they liked it. I appreciate your comments. Thanks._

Part 8

That afternoon, Adam lay quietly on the blankets and the world seemed calm and he felt at peace; the woman was in the kitchen and he could hear her moving about. Earlier, she had cut roses and placed them in a vase on the mantle and Adam hoped that she had done so out of consideration for him. He could admire the beauty of the colors and the delicate petals that so gently curved and protected the delicate center.

Later, she had also brought in a headless chicken, cleanly cut. Adam had heard the chickens squawking and decided that she was catching one and then he heard the sound of an axe landing in wood. Everyone who raised chickens had a stump which they used to behead the fowl. Adam wondered if he would receive any of the chicken that she was preparing in the kitchen, plucking it and gutting it.

He heard the sounds of hooves approaching and within a few seconds, the woman came out from the kitchen and glanced at him as she walked past him and out the front door. Adam heard greetings; it seemed to Adam that she was welcoming two men who both had southern accents, one more refined than the other. He was sure they were Confederate soldiers and that she would turn him over to them. Earlier, he wouldn't have cared so much—life had been so full of pain and suffering, but now, after seeing the woman's face and hearing her voice, he didn't want to die. She had given him back the desire to live; life held such beauty now.

Adam heard the woman invite the men in but they declined-said that they weren't clean and if she would be so gracious as to allow them just to rest on her porch and water their horses, they would soon be on their way. Her voice was warm and welcoming and Adam waited. He heard the voices drop low and then he knew they were going to come for him, that they were discussing him. He pushed himself up and looked around the room for anything he could use as a weapon and saw the fireplace poker. He dragged himself to it and grabbed it. Adam knew that it was poor defense but he wouldn't willingly allow them to take him so he sat against the brick fireplace and held the poker with both hands, his heart pounding.

The woman walked in and glanced over at him, surprised to see him sitting up against the fireplace, gripping the poker, but she went on into the kitchen. Adam could hear the noise as she made a pot of coffee and he could also hear the low voices of the men on the porch. He waited, his head swimming, his breathing labored. Then he smelled bacon frying and after a few minutes, the popping of eggs in fat. The odors made his stomach churn with hunger. After a few minutes, she walked past him without even a glance, holding two plates filled with food for the men on the porch.

Adam heard their voices rise in gratitude and heard the woman laugh at something one of them said and when she walked back in, Adam saw that she had a gentle smile on her face. Was she anticipating a joke on him? Were the men going to fill their bellies first and then drag him out and hang him? All he could do was wait.

The woman passed through again carrying a pot of coffee and two cups, and for the next fifteen minutes or so, Adam waited, sweat pouring from him while the three people on the porch talked. He could make out most of it. They hadn't found the escaped prisoner, they said, and they were returning to their regiment which, they had discovered when they sent and received a telegram, had been transferred to Valdosta—they were hoping to stage a defense and push the Yankees back again.

Finally, Adam heard the sounds of horses riding away. The woman hadn't turned him over to them. She slowly walked in from the porch and headed for the kitchen but Adam called out to her.

"Ma'am, why didn't you hand me over to them—tell them I was here?"

She stared at him for a moment. "I don't know. I should have." She looked pointedly at the poker he was gripping. "And were you going to kill them with that poker?"

Adam gave a small laugh. "Well, I was going to put up a fight—as well as I could."

She looked at him oddly and Adam couldn't decipher her expression; he didn't know if it was disdain or amusement. And she continued on to the kitchen.

Zelphia finished gutting the chicken but when she picked up the cleaver to chop in into sections, she stopped and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. The words had come to her lips so many times: "He's in the living room, weak as a lamb. You can shoot him, hang him, tie him to your horses and drag him back to the prison—I don't care." But she did care and she knew why. Zelphia had listened to the Yankee Captain's feverish ramblings and by doing so, had learned the man's soul. He loved his father and he cherished his brother and took honor and duty seriously. Why the man even talked to his horse. She had kept swallowing the words that would have doomed him-hadn't been able to turn him in because she knew she wouldn't be able to bear seeing him hurt anymore-he had been through so much already-and she also feared the emotions she felt for him. He had to go soon or she was afraid of what would happen.

"Oh, Charles," she whispered to the heavens, "Where are you? Why did you leave me?" And she dragged herself up from the chair to finish the chicken stew for their meal.

Adam was still unsteady and the woman fed him the thick stew as he still rested against the brick of the fireplace; he hadn't yet moved from the spot since the soldiers had left. And since he had time to look around the small house, he noted that it was comfortable and serviceable but Adam considered how he could make it better, make it have more character. But for two people, it served.

"It's very good chicken stew," Adam said between spoonfuls, but the woman said nothing, just continued to feed him. "Ma'am, would you talk to me?" Adam asked. "I miss having someone to talk to. I imagine living here alone that you do too."

She stopped the spoon and stared at him. "I have nothing to say to you." Then she continued ladling the soup

"It doesn't have to be anything important," Adam said after swallowing the spoonful, "—just maybe, what you did today—other than save me from the two prison guards. Or you could talk to me about why you did it. I'd like to know."

She put the soup bowl down beside him, the spoon clinking against the side. "It's cool enough that you can feed yourself. If you can't handle the spoon yet, drink it." She stood up.

"Wait, don't go." She stopped and turned around. "I know you hate me—that's obvious and I understand why you do. After all, I'm the enemy. I also understand that you want me to suffer. I can understand that too—I've felt it myself—that hate that wants to cause another person pain. But there's something about being shunned by you that…even back in biblical times…as Cain said, 'My punishment is more than I can bear.' Even in that pit of Andersonville I had companions, people who shared their humanity with me, their thoughts with me. I know you've been through bad things—one, you have a Yankee sitting here in your parlor…" Adam tried to smile at her but still, she said nothing. "Won't you just talk to me? I just want to hear your voice."

Adam saw her face change; it wasn't the calm, expressionless mask she usually wore; he saw sadness around her eyes and he was sorry he had beleaguered her. But he didn't have much time to regret it; she quickly walked away and he heard her bedroom door close.

"Oh, hell," he told himself resting his head on the cool brick, "you made a worse mess of things." And then he heard her door open and her footsteps that he had come to listen for—to long for. The woman sat on the sofa facing him; she had a book in her hands.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said, "but if you just want to hear another voice, I'll read to you. I have a few books."

"Yes, thank you," he said. "I'd be appreciative." And he crawled back to his pile of blankets and lay back down and he heard her voice commence:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…"

"My father…," Adam said.

"What?"

"It reminds me of my father—the novel you're reading. I had quoted it when I told him I was joining up."

She recalled his feverish conversations with his father, how he had pled with his father to forgive him.

"He didn't want you to join," Zelphia said as a simple statement.

"No, he didn't." Adam wanted to tell her about his father but she began to read again, her soft voice like a breeze caressing him, flowing over him and soothing him.

She read for another hour and then closed the book and stood up. "If you like, I'll read you more tomorrow."

"Thank you. I would like that," he said. "That quote from chapter three, well, I can't remember all of it now but it made me think of us…every human creature is…constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other… every beating heart is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!" She stared at him and he saw that she was trying hard to control herself; she had feelings that she wanted to hide. "Your heart's as secret to me as your name."

Zelphia said nothing to him but once she was in her room, she curled up on the bed and thought about the man in the front parlor. He was wrong; she didn't hate him—but she also didn't want to care about him but she couldn't help herself.

TBC


	9. Part 9

Part 9

Over the next two days, Adam recovered much of his strength. Although the woman still wouldn't have a conversation with him, just asked him necessary questions, she fed him and allowed him to continue to sleep on her floor. And she continued to read to him in the evenings-the one thing he came to desire more than even food or drink. And Adam began to itch. She had remarked that he must be feeling better since he was now aware of his lice bites and the mosquito welts.

That morning, after she had given him his breakfast of grits, she knelt beside Adam and tended his wound. He would watch her face as she cleaned and bandaged him and she always looked so intent. She had just finished tying off the muslin strip after he had struggled to raise himself so that she could wrap it around him, when she picked a louse off his chest and crushed it with her thumbnail.

"You now have my blood on your hands," he quietly said.

"What?" She seemed startled.

"It was a joke," Adam said. "You crushed the louse that had bitten me so you have my blood on your hand. It was just meant as a joke." Adam watched her but she wouldn't look at him, just finished with him, stood up and walked out of the room. He didn't know that she had gone through the house and out the back door where she sat down on the top step and wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth. Adam didn't know that she had earlier thought of letting him die, that she wanted him to die and then would have had his "blood on her hands" for certain.

Adam slowly sat up. His head swum; he had lain prone for so many days that when he raised himself, the room seemed to tilt. Adam lay back down and then, after the dizziness had passed, he sat up again. For the first time, he really looked around him. He noticed the yellow sulphur powder bordering his blanket and couldn't help but smile. He also noticed that there were dead lice on the blanket beneath him but there were more live ones on him; his groin itched and he could only imagine how the body lice must be crawling around. He raised himself up and grabbing the fireplace mantel, stood recovering his balance. He felt the need to void and so he worked his way to the front door and out onto the porch where he held onto the railing to steady himself. Taking a deep breath, he unbuttoned all but the top button of his trousers and relieved himself off the front porch. Then he sat down on the top step, hoping to recover after his small exertions. Adam hadn't realized how weak he was—or how thin he was. He looked down at his thighs and for the first time he realized how he must look to others—and for the first time in a long time, he cared.

The vista from the porch was commanding. He hadn't realized how beautiful the Georgia countryside could be having only really seen the inside of the prison other than the few times he went out to dump waste or on burial duty. But the land was rich and beautiful and the pines that were slowly creeping onto the property were majestic. He looked at the vibrant colors of the woman's rose garden, the mingling of the red and pink roses that reminded him of the damasked sofa that an old love had had in her parlor. And on the other side of the porch was a climbing vine with white flowers that had wound itself around the porch railing.

But along with the beauty, Adam also saw that there were needed repairs to the property. The chicken coop needed painting and the wire fence, repaired. The house cried for whitewashing and the seedling pines that were encroaching needed to be removed. Adam considered that once he felt stronger but before he was too strong to leave to get back to his regiment, he could show the woman how appreciative he was for her help and fix up the property for her. And he wondered about her man.

Adam had noticed the thin gold band on her left ring finger as she had tended to him and it explained her aloofness. Adam assumed that her husband had gone off to fight for the South and Adam realized that he had been lucky she hadn't blown his head off that first night on sheer principal and not just because he had stolen her eggs and upset her chickens. No wonder she had spat in his water.

He smiled to himself. He would have drunk the water no matter what she had done to it—as long as it was her; he wanted to show her that he was so thankful to her, that even that small bit of hate from her couldn't undermine how he felt about her. Every time she came near him, his heart rose despite the look of disdain she always gave him and the cold way she spoke to him. He would have crawled on his belly just to get a kind word from her or a pat on the head like a biscuit-eating dog. Adam realized how much he needed contact with another person and not as soldier to enemy or one soldier to another. He wanted someone to talk to on a cool night, someone to laugh with and a beautiful woman to look at. Adam sighed deeply, thinking of her beauty, her gentle face and round arms and white neck. He shuddered a bit thinking of her rounded breasts beneath her clothing and he wanted to cry with longing.

"Damn fool. You start to feel better and what's the first thing you think of? What's between a woman's legs."

Adam, hearing the swishing of skirts and her light footsteps, turned around. The front door was open and she stood there.

"Did you think I'd left?" he asked with a smile.

"I had hoped so."

"Sorry that I disappointed you, then." Adam looked back out to the garden. "I was admiring your flowers; your roses are beautiful but what's this blooming vine? I'm not familiar with it."

"Confederate jasmine."

Adam laughed. "So out here even the plants take sides."

She said nothing, just turned to go back inside. "Ma'am," Adam called, "if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, might I have a bath? And my shirt, if I could have a needle and thread, I could maybe stitch it together again. I can't go running around shirtless in front of a lady." Adam attempted a smile.

"I burned your shirt—it was nothing more than a rag. I'll get you one of my…husband's—you can wear it after you've had a bath. You'll have to take the bath out back. There's a large wash tub you can stand in, kneel in, drown yourself in for all I care. I'll boil your blankets on the stove-and those trousers."

"Thank you, ma'am, for your good, helpful bathing suggestions." The woman turned at his sarcasm and lifted her chin.

"Do you have scissors so I can cut my hair? I'd like to get rid of these lice." He scratched his head.

"Go out back and sit on the stairs; I'll cut your hair but don't expect me to scrub your back. I'll go boil some water now." She left him to go into the house and Adam grinned; a woman like her he could love. A woman like her he would gladly and eagerly bed.

Adam walked through the house, taking the way he thought she had gone. She was in the kitchen when he entered and seemed surprised to see him there.

"The stairs out here?" he asked, pointing to the open back door.

"Yes."

Adam nodded and sat on the top step. The barn was in the back with a large paddock that had a grazing horse and cow. There was a pump and a horse trough and a buggy stood under a covered port. He also noticed the vegetable garden and to the right were fields where it was obvious that nothing had been planted in a long while.

Adam turned and the woman stood behind him with a pair of scissors; she wielded them as if they were a weapon. He looked up at her, grinning. "Tempted?" She just glared at him.

So as Adam sat on the step, the only sound was the shearing of his hair and the dropping of it by handfuls to the ground beside the stairs.

"What about your beard?" she asked.

"Did your husband leave any shaving supplies?"

"Yes." She seemed to be considering something and then said, "I'll get them. I have a mirror you can use."

Zelphia went back into the house and gathered the shaving equipment her husband had left behind; a straight razor, a razor strop and a small cake of soap and mug and brush, as well as a hand mirror from her vanity set. She stared at her husband's belongings. The china mug had a small chip on the lip. So many times she had looked at it and told herself that one day, she would buy him another one. And she smiled at how her husband would go a day or two without shaving and then he would want her and she would insist he shave first. And he would mumble and complain to himself but would quickly shave. And then she would welcome him with open arms back into their bed.

Zelphia took the shaving materials out to Adam who still sat, now shorn of his locks, on the back steps. He turned to receive them, pushing himself to a standing position.

"Thank you, ma'am. I was thinking that I could make some repairs around here to thank you for your kindness to me. "

"If you want to thank me, while you're shaving, cut your throat." Zelphia turned and went back into the house.

Adam gave a snort of derision. "Hard as nails," he said to himself. He looked at the razor that was folded shut and sitting in the mug. She could have come up behind him, simply reached down and slit his throat from ear to ear. Adam wondered if she had considered it.

TBC


	10. Part 10

Part 10

Adam hadn't seen his face in such a long time that once he shaved, he felt he was looking at a stranger. The skin under where his beard had been was white and relatively smooth compared to the haggard look of his eyes and the creases on his forehead. His belly and chest were white and pale and his neck, and lower arms were tanned. He considered that he looked like a man who had been through perdition and may not yet be fully out.

He believed that a bath had never felt as good as this cleansing. The water was cold but he didn't care. He rinsed himself over and over, scrubbing himself down with the lye soap, lathering up his groin over and over, pulling nits off the curly hair, and he would have to fill up the bucket again and again to rinse himself. He examined his wound as best he could considering its position and saw that the flesh had closed around it and there were no traces of the dreaded gangrene that had killed so many soldiers in Andersonville. And the wash tub in which he stood was full of dead lice floating on the top.

The woman had cut his hair closely and he glanced at the pile of black hair by the back step. Yet he still kept scrubbing his head again and again. Finally he was satisfied and dried himself off with the rough towel she had given him. Then he picked up the shirt and trousers she had left for him along with a pair of suspenders and a pair of socks. He held up the socks and smiled as his own had holes in the toes and the heels were practically threadbare. Wearing fresh, clean socks would be a pleasure in which he hadn't indulged in almost two years.

The shirt was of homespun cloth but he sighed as the clean fabric enveloped him. For some reason he didn't have the time to explore, he felt tears come to his eyes; his body was clean, washed, rid of vermin, and he was putting on clean clothes. He felt newly baptized, as if his soul had been cleansed as well. And then he pulled on the trousers which were at least an inch too short and adjusted the braces, buttoning the straps. Then he sat and pulled on the pair of clean socks and his boots which he had barely removed in almost a year except to dry them out when they became too wet from walking through puddles.

In the prison camp, if you took your boots off before you slept, they would be gone in the morning; someone would use them as a stake in one of the gambling tents. Adam had learned the importance though of keeping his feet dry. He had seen men who hadn't taken care of their feet and how fungus destroyed their nails and skin making it painful to walk. But his boots slid back on comfortably. He stepped out of the shadow of the barn and into the sunshine, letting the pure light fall on his face and he smiled; he felt alive again.

Adam walked into the kitchen and saw a large pot boiling on the stove and inside were the blankets on which he had lain. He walked out into the parlor and the woman was mopping the floor where he had been laying.

"I would have done that," he said. "Been glad to."

She turned, startled at the man she saw in front of her; except for the deep, rich voice, she would have thought it was a another man who had walked into her house. Zelphia stared at him. He was decidedly handsome and she noted that his mouth seemed almost too beautiful in his rugged face. But what else surprised her was seeing her husband's well-worn clothes on another man. This Yankee captain brought home the fact that her husband was gone-probably forever. Zelphia knew her husband was dead. She hadn't received a letter informing her of such, but she knew.

Zelphia, her heart pounding, went back to mopping, hoping the Captain would go away.

"I can help you. I can't lift the sofa with one hand like my brother Hoss can…"

She stopped mopping. "What did you say?"

"I said that I wouldn't be able to pick up the sofa with one hand like my brother Hoss can."

Zelphia began to giggle. Adam had seen people have unusual reactions to Hoss' odd nickname before but he was surprised and pleased to see the woman who was always so stern and somber, giggle. She let the mop handle drop against the sofa and giggled more, trying to suppress it by covering her mouth with her hand but then she gave way into it and laughed openly. Adam couldn't help but smile.

"I thought…" she said, still laughing. "When you were in a fever, you rambled, I thought you were talking to your horse but it was your brother." Then she laughed more and seemed to revel in the light-hearted feeling of laughter that bubbled forth. And Adam began to laugh as well, not so much at the woman's confusion at the name but because her joyous release gave him pleasure and he hadn't laughed in so long that it filled his chest and burst forth. And she delighted him, she was so very beautiful.

And then she stopped laughing and became embarrassed. He had seen her with her guard down. He may just as well have seen her naked.

Adam was confused again. She had suddenly changed and after composing herself, she averted her eyes and picked up her mop.

"Would you go out on the porch or out back; I need to clean my house." She continued mopping and then stopped and looked at him as he stood as if expecting something else from her. "Besides, I need to tend to your wound again—I don't want you bleeding on the shirt" She rested the mop handle against the sofa again. "Let's go in the kitchen and do it now. I washed the soiled handkerchiefs last night; they should be dry by now."

Adam followed her into the kitchen which was steamy and hot due to the boiling water. She picked up a dishtowel and dragged the pot off the burner. And without saying anything to each other, Adam stood with his shirt pulled up while she put fresh sulphur powder on his wounds and wrapped a fresh muslin strip around him.

"Thank you," he said. She didn't reply, just went about putting things away. "I'll go out to the porch and get out of your way." He waited but there was no response from her so he went out and sat on the rocker. There were two rockers and Adam imagined the woman and her husband sitting out there on warm Georgia nights and talking to one another and then his putting his hand out to his wife and her taking it and then his leading her to their bed. He sighed deeply and wondered if he had a wife like the woman inside, would he have left and gone to war? Would he have been able to drag himself from her side and her bed to go off and fight no matter what he believed? He wondered because he found that suddenly, he wasn't so eager to find his regiment; he actually wanted to stay with her even though she despised him. He was drawn to her and it wasn't just because she had given him shelter, food and tended his wounds. There was something about her face and the way she moved and how she looked at him that touched him so profoundly that he couldn't put them into words; he just knew that she made him want to cry out that he needed her to touch him—just to touch his cheek and perhaps smile at him and speak a kindness. He could be happy with that.

The scent of the jasmine, the perfume of its flowers, reached Adam along with a gentle breeze. It touched his cheek as gently as he imagined the woman would. He was clean and wearing comfortable clothes and his stomach was content with the breakfast he had eaten. The woman was inside putting her house in order, her life in order and Adam rested his head on the chair back, closed his eyes, and soon he was asleep.

TBC


	11. Part 11

Part 11

"Captain."

Adam awoke. In his dream, one of his men had been calling him, saying "Captain, Captain." But when he looked, it was the woman who was standing there, having called him awake.

"Lunch is ready if you're hungry." Then she turned and went back inside.

Adam pushed himself up from the chair and walked into the house. He noticed that his blankets between the sofa and fireplace were gone. When he walked cautiously into the kitchen he saw through the open back door, his blankets hanging on a clothesline. Adam just stood in the kitchen, not quite knowing what to do.

The woman glanced at him. "Sit down."

Adam quickly sat but when she walked toward the table with two bowls and spoons, he stood up and went around, pulling out her chair.

"Don't be foolish," she said. "Just sit down."

He did as she said and then he placed the napkin she had put on the table for him, on his lap. He began to eat and the warm chicken stew tasted like ambrosia to him. "This is very good, ma'am."

"It's just rewarmed stew from the other night."

"It was good then and it's good now." She said nothing else and Adam noticed that although she had allowed him to sit with her, she didn't otherwise acknowledge him; they ate in silence.

For the rest of the day, Zelphia worked at the chores that she hadn't been able to do in the morning as she usually did, and when she came in again, Adam noticed that she had a large basket of eggs. Then she sat in an upholstered rocking chair in the parlor and Adam watched as she worked with a bone shuttle that had a hook at one end to make lace. Her hands worked quickly and she continued until she had another two feet of elegant lace. Adam wondered why she was making it since she wore plain calico or simpler homespun without any decoration. But he did notice that there were a few lace doilies and antimacassars on the backs of the furniture.

"What is it you're making?" he asked.

She never looked up at him. "Lace."

"I know it's lace. I guess what I was asking is why you're making it."

The woman rested her hands in her lap and spoke to him as if he were a small child needing an explanation. "I sell it to the dressmaker in town as well as tatted collars and doilies. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Yes, ma'am." And she didn't speak to him for the rest of the day, just went about making butter and tending to the necessities of living until she called him to dinner.

They sat in silence after she said grace. Dinner was a pan of cornbread with bacon drippings drizzled over it and a few slices of bacon, boiled carrots from the garden, and a tall glass of milk. Adam noticed that the woman had no meat on her plate.

"You have no bacon." He lifted his plate as an offering to her. "Take mine."

"I don't care for any, thank you." The woman went back to eating.

"Please. I can't eat it unless you have some. Please take it—at least a few slices."

"I don't want it," she said, obviously upset. "I served the food—I should know if I wanted any or not."

Adam put his plate back down. She was agitated and Adam feared that if he continued, she'd leave the table and go to her room and he'd be alone again. So they continued to eat in silence and he ate the bacon and the cornbread. She offered him more cornbread and he gladly took it but as for herself, she barely ate.

Then her voice broke the silence. "I have to go to town tomorrow; I need supplies."

Then Adam understood the reason for the sparse dinner. "I could go with you if you'd like. Ride along with you, keep you company."

"No." And then she added, "Thank you, but no."

Adam nodded; it was what he had expected. "Ma'am, I was wondering if, well, if you have any you can spare, if you have paper, I'd like to write my father, let him know I'm alive. I haven't had a chance to write him in almost two years." She said nothing. "My brothers, well, before I left, I talked them out of joining up but it's been so long. If Hoss thinks I'm dead he might join up just to try to get revenge—he's like that. He's good-natured but when he's riled, he's formidable. He's taller than I am and weighs a good 80 pounds more than I do—well, when I'm filled out." He smiled at her but she didn't look up. "Why if he had shown up here, he would've not only sucked all the eggs dry in the chicken coop, he probably would've built a spit and roasted all your chickens too." Then Adam saw a slight smile on the woman's face. "And then, Joe, well, his mother was from New Orleans and his sympathies lie with the south. You might even like him—he's a ladies' man though. He'd be flirting with you. He can't pass up a beautiful woman."

Then the woman looked at him and Adam knew he had said the wrong thing but he didn't seem to be able to stop himself from talking; all his loneliness and isolation needed a release. "Hop Sing would call you a woman of jade. Jade's a stone that's important to the Chinese; it's strong and has a certain luminous beauty. He had given me a piece of jade as a talisman—I don't know what happened to it."

She suddenly stood up and pushed her chair back, leaving the table. Adam looked after her, helpless to stop her, to bring her back.

"You goddamn fool," he told himself. He knew he should have shut up, stopped talking but he wanted to share so many things with her, to talk to her and have her respond; he had never felt as lonely before as he did in her company. But she returned and placed the jade disc on the table beside him.

"I found this in your shirt pocket. It fell out when I went to burn it. I've been meaning to return it to you—I wasn't stealing it."

Adam took the cool, round stone in his hand and ran it between his fingers. "It's supposed to keep me safe. I guess I don't yet know if it worked." He looked up at her face, questioning her. And then she did leave.

Adam looked at her empty place and quickly finished his meal, wetting his fingers with his tongue and picking up the last crumbs of cornbread. Then he picked up the dishes and boiled some water so that he could wash them. When the woman came in, Adam was finishing drying the few dishes and had washed out the coffee pot.

"I would have done that."

"Yes, ma'am, but I need to earn my keep some way. If I can lighten your burden in any other way…"

She interrupted him. "You can sleep in the spare room. The pillow you used isn't dry yet so there isn't one for sleeping and it's just a bed, small table and a lamp; we had no guests staying over—the furniture in there came with the house."

"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate it." Adam folded the dish towel and smiled. "You said you'd read to me. I'm waiting for the next section of the novel."

"You seem well enough to read it for yourself. I'll bring it to you."

"It's really the company I like. If you don't want to read, we could play cards or cribbage. Do you have a cribbage board? Checkers? I won't cheat and I'll even let you win?" He grinned at her.

"No, I have none of that," she said, "but in the top drawer on the desk is paper and envelopes. If you want to write your family, I'll post your letter tomorrow when I go to town. Goodnight, Captain."

Adam stood in the kitchen for a few more minutes after she left and then went to the parlor to write his father. On the way, he passed her closed bedroom door. He paused for a moment but he passed on into the parlor and sat at the desk and pulled open a drawer where some writing paper lay and in another drawer, he found a pen, sealing wax and an ink well. Out of curiosity, he opened the other drawers to see if anything in them would reveal information about the woman but there was nothing; if she received letters, she kept them in her room.

Adam didn't know where to start his letter, with what event. So instead of telling his father everything, he chose to only tell him the basics:

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well and that Hoss and Joe are sitting around the breakfast table (with Hop Sing standing at your right hand) listening while you read this aloud.

I am alive and Providence willing, will soon be rejoining my regiment. I hope that this war ends soon and that I can return to all of you at the Ponderosa.

As much as I yearn to hear the most recent news from home and that I am missed, there is no particular place to send me a letter. Therefore, trust God that I'll return home soon. I will then tell you all that befell me.

Your loving and devoted son,

Adam

Adam sat with the pen poised over the paper; he wanted to write more but decided that it was enough. He addressed the envelope to Benjamin Cartwright in Virginia City, Nevada Territory. He folded his letter, slid it inside the envelope and sealed it. Adam left it on the desk and turned down the lamp. He looked toward the bedrooms and wanted to go and knock on the woman's door. He smiled to himself. What would he say to her? He didn't know so instead of heading to the back where the bedrooms were, Adam went out onto the porch; there was a slight coolness in the air and all was silent.

He listened to all the night sounds that were so different from those of Nevada. Instead of the cry of wolves, there was the chirruping of frogs and the whirring of cicadas. Adam had never before, having never been in this part of the country, not even passing through it on his trips to New Orleans, seen this part of Georgia and hadn't been aware of the green lushness of the countryside, how full of life and energy it was. And Adam thought of the woman and how full and lush she was and how he had never met a woman like her before—and she was one woman that he could never have. And that thought practically drove him mad and he yearned to howl like a wolf in the mountains back home to release the emotions building up inside him.

TBC


	12. Part 12

Part 12

Adam had slept heavily and when he awoke, for the first time in months, he didn't have the shadow of a bad dream hanging over him. He stretched and luxuriated in the bed. It had been so long since he had slept in one and he noticed the night before when he crawled between the clean sheets that they smelled of lavender. Adam decided that the woman must store her linens with a lavender sachet; a typical thing for a woman to do and it had made him smile. He hadn't even minded not having a pillow.

But the house seemed still and Adam went to the window. By the sun, he decided it must be eight or nine o'clock. He quickly dressed and after pulling on his boots, he ventured out into the quiet house. The woman was nowhere. Adam felt a slight panic that some evil had befallen her but then he remembered that she had said she was going to town and he sighed in relief. Oh, course, that's where she was and she said she would post his letter.

Adam thought of his father's face when he would receive the news in Adam's own handwriting that he was well. Hoss, having made the early trip into town, would burst in while breakfast was waiting, waving the letter and shouting. He would hand it to his father, not having opened it himself. Then Hop Sing, having heard the commotion would come in, his brow furrowed and ready to chastise for "Yell, yell, yell—only morning and already yell!" until he found out that it was a letter from Adam. And then, Adam knew his father would quickly scan it, barely breathing, and then would smile and read it aloud, his voice full of emotion. Then everyone would relax and eat their breakfast with a better appetite than usual and for the rest of the day, their minds would be on Adam and perhaps at dinner, after reconciling their emotions and thoughts, they would talk about him. Adam missed them grievously.

Adam ate the leftover cornbread from the night before and drank the coffee she had left for him hot on the burner. Adam wanted to do something for the woman, something that would show how much he appreciated what she had done for him so he went and collected eggs. The chickens scurried about; the large man with the broad hands disturbed them as he reached under them to retrieve any eggs. Then he went out to the barn, intending to clean out the stalls where the horse and cow stood at night and saw there was no straw, no wood chips, just dirt. But then, he told himself, she had no way to get those things that he and his family took for granted. They had their own logging operation so wood chips were no problem and ranch hands to collect it wasn't an issue either. So Adam took a shovel that was standing in the corner and began to shovel out the horse manure that was mainly in one part of the stall.

After he finished that, Adam went to the woodpile by the back door and chopped kindling. He felt a slight wetness on his shirt and looked down; his wound had begun to bleed again. He raised his head at the sound of a wagon and in a few moments the woman drove the buckboard around the back of the house.

Adam rushed to help her down but she didn't wait for him. She stared at his shirt, at the small red stain on the side.

"You're bleeding again."

"I guess I did too much. I wanted to be of some help so I collected eggs, cleaned out the stalls and then chopped some kindling—it was the kindling that did it, I guess." He weakly smiled, trying to make light of the bleeding.

"Now I'll have to wash it. You bled all over the shirt, my husband's shirt, and now I'll have to wash the blood out."

"I'm sorry," Adam said, chagrined. "I can wash it—it's just a spot. And I can take care of the wound."

"No. No, I just…" She turned from him and picked up a small crate in the bed of the buckboard.

"I can take that," Adam said, trying to take it from her.

"I've carried heavier than this," she said and walked past him and into the kitchen where she put the crate on the table and began to unload it.

Adam looked to see if he could help her carry anything else but there were just two baskets, one empty and the other contained the doilies and rolls of lace that she had worked on. He brought them in and sat them on the table as well. He saw that she had unpacked a small bag of cornmeal, some coffee and salt. That was all.

Zelphia noticed the Captain looking at the meager supplies. She saw that he had brought in the baskets.

"I posted your letter," she said.

"Thank you," Adam replied. "If I had money I'd pay you the cost."

The woman just looked at him and then put the supplies in the cupboard. "I suppose you noticed the basket is still full of the lace."

"Yes."

"The dressmaker is gone—she closed shop and left," Zelphia said. "There's no one else to buy any lace. Mr. Rowe, the owner of the general store said that there are only a few people left in Burnside now—everyone who could leave, has. He's leaving as well." She looked at the groceries. "He took my eggs but I think it was out of kindness and he gave me these in return—it was almost the last of what he had in store. I'm afraid this will be the last of the coffee and the cornmeal—and the salt and there's no more bacon." Adam saw her lips quiver; he didn't know if he could bear it if she cried.

"It's my fault," he said. "I'll…I'll be gone in the morning."

"Don't be ridiculous. You bled again just chopping kindling. I'll manage now and I'll manage after you're gone. I still have the cow for milk and butter—and the chickens and eggs. I'll manage."

"Listen to me, ma'am, you can't stay here alone. It isn't safe and…" Adam stopped. The sound of a horse diverted both of their attention. Zelphia, after a short pause, ran toward the front of the house and the door but Adam followed her, grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back.

"Let me go! It might be my husband!" She tried to pull her arm away.

"And it might not. Just…let's make sure who it is first." She seemed to realize the sense of his statement and relaxed and Adam released her arm. But lately, ever since this Yankee had shown up, her husband had been foremost in her mind; what if this Captain wanted to shoot her husband since he was the enemy?

Adam looked through the front window, pulling aside the curtain and peering through the sheers, and saw a man in a partial Yankee uniform wearing a forage cap; the jacket was tied over the back of his saddle. Adam also noticed that the saddle and the other gear was Confederate. Adam reasoned that the soldier had killed a southern soldier and taken his horse. Adam also noted he had no rifle, just an empty scabbard on his saddle. The Confederate soldier must have died, gripping it and there hadn't been time for this man to pry it from his hands. The man had dismounted and was looking around. Zelphia looked from behind Adam and then she ran to the kitchen, returning with her shotgun.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to make him leave—or shoot him."

"Don't be a fool. If he's here alone, he's more than likely a deserter. Maybe all he wants is a drink and food or maybe he wants more but you don't know and can't take that chance. Let me talk to him."

"What are you going to tell him? That you're a Union soldier too? An officer? If he's a deserter, he won't take to that well; he'll know you're on to him. If he thinks you're a Southerner, he'll shoot you."

"Well, what else do you suggest I do—just shoot him down in cold blood?"

"Yes."

"And I'm sure you regret not having done the same to me." Adam snorted in disdain. He looked back out and the man was walking up the porch stairs, his pistol drawn, and by his uniform, Adam could tell he was a private of about his own age. Adam was now sure that the man was a deserter.

"Give me the shotgun," Adam put out his hand. Zelphia grasped the weapon tighter. She considered that Adam and this other Union soldier might join in collusion against her and she would be helpless. But this Yankee Captain's gray-green eyes compelled her to hand the shotgun over and she did.

Adam nodded to her and motioned for her to step back before he opened the front door and when he did, the deserter stopped on the second step; he saw the shotgun pointed at him even though the man holding it looked thin and weak and his shirt had a small bloodstain on the far side. The Union soldier slowly raised his hands.

Adam had been around enough southerners by now to imitate their accent, so in a slow, cadenced southern drawl, Adam asked, "What is it you want?"

"Just a little food, if you and your missus here," he said, motioning with his head to Zelphia who stood behind Adam, "have any to spare. I'll be on my way then."

Adam thought about the short rations they had and said, "We haven't got much ourselves but we might be able to spare somethin'." He motioned with his head that he was now talking to the woman behind him. "Sweetheart," he said, in a lower tone that conveyed a sense of intimacy, "there're some eggs in the kitchen that I gathered this mornin'. Would you fry 'im up a mess?" And without saying anything, Adam heard the woman's skirts as she turned and went into the kitchen.

"Thank you," the deserter said. "Mind if I sit?" The man eyed the two rocking chairs.

"You can drop on that step. And slide your pistol over here. I'll return it when you leave."

Although the man seemed reluctant, he did as Adam said, sliding his pistol on the porch boards to where Adam indicated with the shotgun barrel. Then he sat on the step sideways, leaning against the porch post and bending one knee, his booted foot resting on the same step, his other foot resting on the step below.

"You're a Union soldier, aren't you?" Adam asked. Had he not personally been familiar with the standard issue Union uniform, he still would have known and he also knew that the man held a low rank.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Why're you riding a horse that's decked out in Confederate gear?"

"I found it on the battlefield. My battalion was devastated, all the men either killed or dying; I couldn't take any more so I left. I guess that I'm a deserter—like you."

"Like me?"

"Why else would a reasonably able-bodied man be out here on this farm. There hasn't been a man under 60 or a boy over sixteen who hasn't joined up. And those boots of yours—they're military issue. 'Course, I can't blame you. If I had a wife like yours at home, I'd have deserted to get back to her within the first month. Nothing like a pretty woman to make a man hate war." He pulled out a knife, a vicious looking knife that wasn't military issue, and began to clean his fingernails with it.

"What's that knife for?" Adam asked as it looked like nothing he had ever seen.

"To cut rope and shit," the man said. "And I've slit a few throats with it too. Before the war, I was a gambler and a damn good one, but sometimes people think, after they've lost quite a bit of money to you, that you must be cheating. Actually, I've even cut a few fingers off with it and carved my initials in a few cheeks. I guess gambling is a lot like war—you look at the odds and then decide which chance you're willing to take—and what the ante is going to be"

"So you decided to fold, so to speak," Adam said, "and call it over."

"It's the end of the war for me—and I'd say for you too. Well, there's talk that the war's almost over any way; after Sherman's torching of everything he saw, destroying the whole guts of Georgia, well—he left a wasteland behind him. The Confederacy's toppling like dominoes, they're saying."

A movement caught Adam's eyes and he looked to the door; the woman was standing there holding a plate, her face ashen.

"Why thank you, ma'am," the soldier said, slipping his knife back into its sheath and standing up to take the plate from her.

"What did you say? That the war might be over soon? Would everyone come home then—even prisoners?"

The deserter had sat back down and began shoveling the eggs in his mouth. "Everyone but the dead, ma'am," he said, his mouth full of her fresh-cooked eggs.

TBC


	13. Part 13

Part 13

The Yankee deserter ate the eggs and drank the glass of milk Zelphia brought him. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and thanked them both. But the deserter also noticed that although the man had sat with the shotgun over his knees, he had kept his finger on the trigger the whole time.

The deserter stood up. "Well, I'll be going on my way and again, thank you for the food." He looked Zelphia up and down considering what a pretty woman she was and his loins heated at the thought of pressing her underneath him. He had already taken one young woman a few days ago; she had been out alone in a yam field and as he had watched her bending over, he had to have her so he toppled her in the dirt. After he finally caught her and forced himself on her-and no matter how loud she screamed, no one else came or even heard,-he buttoned his pants up and rode away. And then he had gone on feeling lighter.

He reached for his pistol and Adam cocked the shotgun. The man stopped, his hand outstretched.

"I think you should just leave it right there."

"Why? I need my pistol."

"You've your knife and I think that'll do. Besides, we're Confederate and you're a Yankee—deserter or not. We've fed you which is more than we should've done. Now on your way."

The deserter begrudgingly rode off after looking back to the porch where Adam stood with the shotgun, ready to use it and Zelphia stood slightly behind him.

"You're quite the actor," Zelphia said, looking at Adam with amusement. "I would have sworn you were a local boy."

"Well, sweetheart, I've been around enough Confederate guards to have adapted. Let's go inside. I don't trust him." And Adam swept up the pistol and took it with him into the house.

Adam checked the pistol and noted it was loaded. He showed the woman that he was placing it in the desk drawer for her to "Use it if you need it. Oh, and please don't use it against me." He gave her a wry smile and then went into his room to take care of his seeping wound but the woman followed and when she saw what he was doing, wordlessly, she entered and helped him.

"I'll get you another shirt," she said quietly and came back a minute later with a blue chino cloth shirt that was soft and comfortable.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said and she bent down to pick up the soiled shirt he had been wearing.

"I'll go prepare lunch," she said and then stopped. With her back to Adam, she said. "I want to thank you for what you did. And for once, I'm glad that you're here." Then she walked off to the kitchen to soak the shirt in a bucket of water and a bit of shaved soap.

Adam smiled to himself; he realized that what she had said took a lot out of her but to Adam, she might just as well have said that she loved him for the feeling of joy it gave him. And so Adam lay on the bed against the headboard and smiled to himself. She had told him that she was glad he was there. But he couldn't enjoy it for too long because his thoughts went back to the Yankee deserter and the news he had passed on about the imminent end of the war. Adam knew he would have to leave soon, to return to his regiment or any regiment. It was his duty. But the warm day and the reassuring sounds of the woman in the kitchen made him drowsy and soon he was napping.

Zelphia hummed to herself as she worked and every so often she would sing out the words of a hymn she knew. "Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms, leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms. Oh, how sweet to…" and a hand clapped over her mouth, silencing her and another arm went around her waist and pulled her next to him. Zelphia's first thought was that it was Captain Cartwright and that she should have let him die; this was how he repaid her. But then she heard the voice and smelled his stink of horse and sweat and she knew who it was—the Yankee deserter.

"Where's your man?" he asked deep in his throat. The deserter released her and held his knife, the blade slightly curved and sharp, menacingly toward her throat, moving it back and forth.

"Out on the property," she lied.

"Good. That'll save me from having to kill him. Now if you give me what I want, I'll be out of here before he returns—got it?"

She nodded, her heart thumping. Zelphia knew that the Captain was in the house and unaware of what was happening a few yards from him. She also knew that if she made noise, he would come to help her but he might be stabbed and a gut wound—well, there was no help for that. And this man had at least 60 pounds on the Captain. So as terrified as she was, Zelphia kept quiet.

"What is it you want?" she asked.

He grinned at her. "I want my pistol, your shotgun, some victuals…and you. And I don't especially care in which order so seeing that we're here and you're mighty desirable, I'll start with you. Can't believe that southern son-of-a-bitch gets to bed you every time he feels the rise. Now just bend over that table there and I'll make quick work of it. Let me warn you, you yell for that man of yours and he's dead." He motioned with his head toward the kitchen table.

Zelphia swallowed heavily; she didn't know if she could bear it, could stand this stinking Yankee pressing against her, having his way with her but she saw no option. If it saved the Captain, it was worth it, she decided. She moved sideways to the table, watching the man as he leered at her, and bent over it, stretching her arms out and placing her palms flat on the table top. He placed the knife on the table beside her and Zelphia felt hands roughly push up her skirt.

"Think of other things," she told herself. And she tried to remember her husband and what he looked like but instead of his face, that of the Captain's kept arising like a ghost before her. She felt a rough hand fumbling with her pantalets and with his knee, he pushed her thighs apart; she let out a sharp cry.

"Now you shut up," the man said, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back until her neck arched. "Just shut-up!" Then he roughly released her hair and continued fumbling with her underclothes. Zelphia heard the deserter grunt in surprise and then his weight was off her body. She turned quickly, moving away, and saw that the Captain had pulled the deserter off of her and had thrown him against the stove.

The deserter quickly jumped away with a yelp as the stove was hot and he held one hand, obviously burned. Both he and Adam looked at the knife on the table.

"Look," the deserter said, "I just thought I'd have a little fun, that's all. But I know I should've never tried. I saw the way you looked at her and I guess, well, seeing that hunger in your eyes for your wife made me get an appetite too. You know what it's like when you got that itch." But he kept glancing at the knife on the table and inching over toward it. Abruptly, both the deserter and Adam reached for the knife but the deserter was closer and reached it first and quickly turned it on Adam. He crouched, tossing the knife from hand to hand and gave a deep chuckle. "Now let's see what she thinks of you when I cut off your balls. She'll want me then." And the man lunged at Adam, the knife aimed at Adam's stomach.

And it all happened so quickly that Zelphia could only watch. As the deserter tried to stab Adam in the gut, Adam side-stepped and grabbed the man's wrist and twisting him around, used the man's knife against him and stuck it in the deserter's lower abdomen and as Zelphia stared, Adam worked the knife blade in short jerks up toward the man's sternum until she heard the sick sound of the blade hitting the bone. Then Adam pulled out the knife and the deserter stared, open-mouthed, surprised. Then he dropped to the ground and his blood pulsed out with the slowing beat of his heart and began to spread around him on the kitchen floor.

Adam stood looking at the dead man. Adam needed time to recover; he was breathing heavily and shaking from the exertion. Then Adam looked to Zelphia who was staring at the lifeless body on her kitchen floor.

"Did he hurt you?" Adam asked, but Zelphia couldn't answer him; she was speechless. Zelphia had never seen a man killed. She had beheaded chickens but that was of necessity and she remembered as a child, seeing a butchered pig hung and its throat cut with a hot knife, a bucket catching the blood as it flowed out, later to be used for sausage. All those deaths were of animals and not for any reason but to provide food. But this, this was a dead man, a man who just a few moments before had been living and breathing and walking and who now lay staring blankly at the ceiling, the life draining from him and the long wound gaping.

Adam repeated his question. "Did he hurt you?" He touched her face with his clean hand, the hand that didn't have traces of blood on it.

She recoiled from his touch. "No. No, he didn't but….you killed him, didn't you?"

Adam looked down at the man on the floor. "Yes, I killed him. I'm just sorry you had to see it. Go out to the parlor; I'll take care of the body and clean up in here." Zelphia was too stunned to move, just stood where she was. To leave the kitchen, she would have had to pass by the body and step in the blood. Adam grabbed the man by the ankles, lifting them waist high and started pulling the body out but he quickly broke out into a cold sweat and after only a few feet, had to rest.

"I'll help you," Zelphia said.

Adam was taken by surprise. "You're quite the woman," Adam said and he leaned down and took one leg while Zelphia took the other and together, they dragged the man out the back door and out into the yard, his head thudding against the back steps as he was pulled down them. Adam said that he didn't think he had the strength to dig the size hole required to bury the man so they decided to leave him in the pine forest; the animals would make fast work of him and the ants would make quick work of any remaining flesh on the bones. So they dragged the body far enough away where the smell of the rotting corpse wouldn't reach the house. But before they left his body, Adam crouched beside it and went through his pockets.

"Here," he said, and he handed Zelphia a woman's ruby ring and a few silver coins along with an engraved silver pocket watch that bespoke of a woman's love for a man; "To my beloved husband, Robert," it read.

"Are these his?" Zelphia asked, staring at them items in her palms.

"The spoils of war," Adam answered. "I'm sure he stole them. Keep them-you might be able to sell them." And Zelphia dropped the items in her apron pockets. "And there's his horse; we now have that too," Adam added.

Zelphia looked at him; he had used they plural, "we." He had aligned himself with her, joined himself to her and her heart swelled—she didn't feel so alone anymore.

Adam stood and said a quick prayer over the man; Zelphia was surprised—this Yankee Captain surprised her more every day. Then they walked together back to the house and when they reached the yard, Adam went to wash his hands. She joined him and they shared the bar of soap, each one scrubbing the dirt and any blood off their hands and nails.

"I suppose this was murder," she said.

"It wasn't murder, it was…necessary. I should have shot him as soon as he rode up. What almost happened is my fault."

"No, it's not your fault. And what if I had shot you when you walked into my yard? I had considered it."

Adam was confused by her and his face showed it. "As I said, you're quite the woman."

"I need to mop my kitchen floor," Zelphia said and left Adam standing alone in the yard. And Adam watched her walk away and had no regrets at killing the Yankee deserter; he'd gladly kill the whole world for her.

TBC


	14. Part 14

Part 14

They ate dinner in silence but this time it wasn't because they had nothing to say to each other-there was too much to say and neither one knew how to express it.

Finally, Adam broke the stillness, "Why didn't you call for me?"

Zelphia looked at her plate. "He said he'd kill you—he would have. I didn't want him to. Besides, it's not as if I…"

Adam was horribly confused. Violation was considered to be a fate worse than death yet this woman was willing to allow that man to take her body if it would save him. "I don't understand you. He was going to…hurt you. You should have yelled for me, screamed your head off. I don't understand why you would let him do what he was going to just because…I just don't understand."

Adam wanted her to answer, to explain things to him. He didn't mean that much to her. If anything, he had been a burden. But suddenly, he thought maybe he understood part of her thinking; she wasn't like other women he had ever known—that he knew. But she was logical. If the man had killed Adam which he probably would have done had Adam come roaring into the kitchen, then the man would have still forcibly taken her and left her lying dead as well.

"I want you to listen to me. I'm leaving tomorrow. I'll take the man's horse and you have yours and the buggy." He noticed that the woman still didn't look up, just paused for a moment longer and then continued eating. "You need to leave here, ma'am. If the Union army is coming through there may be more men who break off—you need to leave. You're not safe here alone."

"I have to be here when my husband comes home," she said quietly.

"Do you really believe he's coming home?" Adam's jaw worked; he knew had to control his temper with her. "Let's suppose he is. You can leave a note telling him where you are; he can find you later but you need to go. Sell the jewelry in the first town you reach—you should get maybe a hundred dollars for the pieces, and there's at least fifty dollars in silver that we took off him not counting the paper money." After Adam and Zelphia had dragged the dead man into the forest and returned to the house, Adam had searched the saddlebags on the horse. The man had Union and Confederate paper bills and some more silver coins as well as a casket full of jewelry that he had obviously stolen. Adam had buried the jewelry and told Zelphia that when she needed it, because no matter what happened, no matter what side won the war, it would take time for the financial world to settle and the items could be bartered for supplies; she could dig them up as she needed them. Adam marked the spot with a large flat stone.

Zelphia looked across the table at him. "Even if I wanted to leave, I have no place to go."

Adam saw this as the opening he needed. "You could go to my family. I'll send a letter with you and the money will pay passage to Nevada. There are trains still running out west, I'm sure; there'd be no reason to block them. My father and brothers will take care of you, help you. I know it's a long trip but hell, woman, I think you can do just about anything now."

"No," she said quietly, "I'm not leaving. This is my home."

Adam pressed his lips together to suppress what he wanted to say, wanted to shout. He wanted to pound his fist on the table as he had seen his father do so many times and rattle the dishes. He wanted to rage at her, to grab her up and shake her and tell her that she was being a goddamned fool to stay on this farm. He couldn't understand how, especially after what happened today, she could insist on staying. And Adam didn't want to leave her. But he said nothing more; he convinced himself that he had tried, offered her a way out and if she refused, well, that was her choice.

But that night, as the evening breeze played with the light curtains on the open window of the bedroom, waving them around the way the woman's skirts swirled around her as she walked and turned, Adam lay awake. He couldn't sleep for thinking about the woman. She disturbed his waking and sleeping moments and he wondered what more he could do to convince her to leave this farm and go on to someplace else. The thought of what might have happened to her tortured him. He sat up in the bed, a sense of panic overtaking him. He turned to the sound of the door being opened and then, framed in the doorway stood the woman, one hand still on the doorknob. Adam said nothing, just waited on her to speak or act.

"I was…" she started to speak but stopped. Then she stepped further into the room and stood beside the foot of the bed.

Adam pulled the sheet back to welcome her and put out his arms, yearning for her. She quickly went to him and he embraced her, surprised at how small she felt in his arms. He sighed and trembled slightly, he was so overwhelmed with emotion. Adam found her mouth with his and drew her down with him; he hungrily covered her neck and shoulders with kisses. The woman responded with a passion matching his own and soon they had temporarily sated their intense desire for one another, clinging to each other as their skin glistened with a coating of sweat. Adam held her tenderly in his arms and said, "Tell me your name."

"Zelphia," she said, pressing her face against his throat and gently placing a kiss there.

He moved over her, drawing her underneath him and he leaned down and kissed her neck, whispering close to her ear, "Zelphia. I, Adam, love Zelphia." And she closed her eyes tightly to keep the tears from falling.

Zelphia sat up. The sun was angling into the room and she had never slept so late. She pulled the sheet up under her arms and looked around for her gown; it was in a pile on the floor by the bed. She quickly slid the gown over her head and paused to listen for sounds but the house was silent.

"He said he was going today and I suppose he did," she said out loud to herself. She tried to be stoic about it; he had warned her that he was leaving and that was why she had gone to him in the darkness. Zelphia knew that he would never approach her—she knew that despite being the enemy, he was noble and had high ideals. And she found it odd to think of him by his first name—Adam. He had asked her to eschew his military title and to call him by his first name and he had asked her to say it. He had said that her saying his name made him feel human again.

Zelphia sat on the edge of the bed. The pillow she had washed had finally dried, the down not sticking in a mass, and last night he had used it—her husband's pillow. But to Zelphia, now it would always be the Captain's pillow, Adam's pillow—and hers. She felt tears of disappointment spring to her eyes; he was gone and she knew it but she missed him—it was as if her heart had been cut out and he had tucked it in the saddlebags of the dead man's horse and ridden away. She touched her face and neck which were still tender from whisker burn and she smiled remembering the night. But Zelphia knew that she had to go on so she went to wash and dress for the day.

After her morning chores, Zelphia sat at her kitchen table eating a light lunch and tried not to think of what had almost befallen her there at the table the day before, what would have most certainly happened had it not been for Adam. She stopped drinking her coffee, bowed her head and with her hands clasped together, said another prayer for Captain Adam Cartwright, that he be kept safe and able to return whole to his family. And then she heard a horse riding up.

Zelphia searched for her shotgun but it was gone; Adam must have taken it. She went out to the desk and pulled open the drawer and there was the loaded pistol. She took a deep breath and went to look out the window, the heavy pistol in her small hand. She was determined to kill whoever it was—Yankee, Confederate, it didn't matter. But much to her surprise, it was Adam.

Zelphia went out to the porch and Adam smiled broadly. "You already have flowers and I couldn't find candy or perfume to present to you so instead, I brought you this." Adam untied a large side of bacon that he had on the saddle horn and held it up to her.

"Where did you get it?" She asked.

"It doesn't matter and here," Adam said, reaching with the other hand into the saddle bag and pulling out a sack. He tossed it to Zelphia as she stood on the porch and she caught it; it was coffee. "And there's sorghum and salt and…" he walked up to her and tipping up her chin, kissed her mouth. "And there's also a sack of white flour." He looked at her and ran the backs of two fingers against her abraded cheek. "I'll have to shave tonight before bed," he said and winked at her.

Zelphia was overwhelmed, not just at his audacity but at the goods he brought back.. "Where did you get the food?" She asked. "Did you buy it?"

"Oh, that reminds me," he said, digging his hand into his pocket while he held the side of bacon in the other, "I didn't need any of the money after all; nobody would sell what they had." He handed some silver coins to her and walked into the house and to the kitchen.

Zelphia followed Adam. "Where did you get the food?"

"I borrowed it."

"You stole it," she said.

"Well, that's another way of putting it," he grinned and went back outside to empty the saddlebags and bring them back in. Zelphia followed him and as he handed her the sorghum, she couldn't stop herself. "You're no better than that Yankee deserter—he stole too."

Adam turned on her. "I am not a deserter. And I stole these things because you need them to survive. Don't you understand that? When I leave, you'll be alone. I had to travel a good fifteen miles just to find another farm. And they had far more than you do. I've lied for you and murdered for you—stealing these seemed like nothing."

"I can't allow you to do this, especially not if it's for me."

"Well, it's not as if I can go riding up and return them now, can I? I was lucky that I managed to get away without getting a back full of buckshot." Adam paused and then looked at her. "Zelphia, I love you. I took this from someone who has enough—more than enough. I hoped you'd be happy but even if you're not, I am." He turned to the saddle, "Oh, and here. I borrowed your shotgun." He pulled it out of the scabbard and handed it to her. "I'm going to take care of the horse. Why don't you fix lunch for us?"

And after unsaddling and brushing the horse, Adam walked up to the back door which was open. He smelled bacon frying. And he sighed in relief. He hoped Zelphia would forgive him for all his trespasses—as he had forgiven her and done so gladly.

TBC


	15. Part 15

Part 15

Adam had always taken the comforts of a woman for granted, something to soothe his lust and take up part of a Saturday night but this was different. The nights he passed in Zelphia's arms and his laying with her was like a series of small deaths and being reborn again and again each morning. He understood that this was what love could be like and he had never before so unselfishly given of his body or his heart. And although she still remained a mystery to him, she encouraged him to talk and he did, his thoughts and feelings pouring forth. So over the time of weeks, Adam told her of his years traveling across country with just his father and then his father marrying Inger and how she was killed by the Indians as he watched holding his infant brother. He talked about Hoss and Joe and Joe's mother, Marie, and of his father's grief at his loss of first Inger and then Marie. Adam talked of how he had grown up with his brothers, how they interacted and what they meant to him. He talked about life at the university and how he had struggled being one of the less affluent students at the time, but how he had graduated second in his class. Zelphia teased him for not being first and he asked if he was second in her heart. She whispered, no-he was first in her heart and so he took her again, out of love and desire and never wanting to be separated from her.

And every day, Adam worked around the farm, making repairs, white-washing the chicken coop, mending the barn and the roof of the house. He would go foraging for supplies and Zelphia would be anxious and worried until Adam returned. She knew that he was stealing most of the items he brought to her like offerings, corn meal, a smoked ham or bacon and even once, a bag of brown sugar, but she didn't ask any more where he found them. And one day, Adam returned with a deer thrown over the saddle in front of him. He seemed proud, "like a small boy," she thought, and with the dead Yankee's knife, Adam skinned and gutted the animal and that night they had fresh venison. Adam salted the rest and hung it to dry from the barn rafters for jerky. Another day, he rode up shirtless; he had tied his shirt together after filling it with peaches, ripe, full peaches and they sat on the porch steps and ate the fruit. They savored the sticky sweetness of them. Zelphia laughingly tried to stop the peach juice as it ran down her chin and then onto her neck but Adam stayed her hand and instead, licked the juices from her throat and chin and kissed the sweet nectar from her lips. Then he took her by the hand and led her inside and for the first time in her life, Zelphia had a man in the full light of day and she wasn't ashamed to show herself, basking in her ability to be free with him.

The season was changing; the leaves were turning gold or red and the breeze had become cooler; soon it would turn to winter and then into another spring, the world turning and spinning, oblivious to man's affairs. Every night, as Zelphia lay sleeping in his arms, Adam would tell himself that the next day he would leave to return to his regiment. But in the morning, the sun would rise and he would see Zelphia's face and hear her voice and she would smile and slip her arms around his neck and kiss him and Adam would know that it wasn't the day he would be leaving and that day would pass with his delighting in her. Then night would come and he would revel in being with Zelphia again. And so the days and nights passed, one after the other, and soon more than a month had gone by and then two and Adam knew that he had to leave. It was on the day he heard distant cannon fire.

As they ate their dinner that night, Adam stopped and looked at the woman sitting across from him. He didn't know how to tell Zelphia he was leaving but he didn't have to; she already knew.

"You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?" she quietly stated.

"Yes. The troops are getting closer and I don't know whose they are but I have to return; I have to finish this out."

Zelphia folded her napkin, making certain that the sides were even and she ran her fingers over the folds, creasing them. She placed it on the table and left the kitchen and went out to stand on the front porch. Adam came up behind her and placed his arms around her waist, kissing her neck and her cheek and then burying his face in her hair.

"I don't want to go, Zelphia, but I have to."

"I know," she said. The tears had begun falling and she couldn't stop them. "I knew this day would come and you would go. I'm thankful you stayed as long as you did. Of course, you should pack some of the jerky and I'll use the white flower to make you biscuits in the morning—you can take them as well. I was saving the flour for a pie—I wanted to make you a pie but never got to it. We always ate any fruit you brought back."

"Zelphia, listen to me." He turned her to look at him and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks but more fell. "Like Cuchulainn trying to stay the unassailable tide."

"What?" Zelphia was confused.

"It's a legend about an Irish hero who tried to turn back the tides of the sea but of course, couldn't. And I may not be able to stop your tears but I'll try." Adam pulled her to him and kissed her as if her mouth held the very secret of life. "Listen to me. I want you to take all the money and jewelry and go to my family. They'll take care of you, see that you're safe. I'll send a letter with you and you can wait for me there."

"No. This is my home. I promised my husband I'd be here."

"Zelphia, don't be a damned fool—he's dead. I know it, you know it. What good will staying here do? None. Please do as I ask."

Zelphia said nothing and Adam knew that as far as she was concerned, the matter was over. He had been around this intractable woman enough and had often seen this stubborn side of her; she would drive any man to distraction.

And for the rest of the evening, Zelpia remained distant and Adam was upset. He tried to broach the subject again as she darned a pair of trousers he had torn, caught them on a nail as he worked in the barn, but she simply put down her work and walked away and he heard the bedroom door close. He listened but he didn't hear the key turn in the lock. He went to the desk and wrote a note to his father, telling him to help the bearer of the letter, Zelphia McInery, and to see that she was established with a home and all that she required. Then he waited until he felt enough time had passed, put out the lamps and went to the bedroom. He opened the door and saw that the woman was curled up in the bed—but she was on one side. He practically shook in relief; she had left room for him to join her. So he did. Adam pulled the woman next to him and kissed her pale neck and shoulders. He realized that even after all their days and nights together, he really didn't know her; this woman was a grander mystery to him that the workings of the universe.

"Zelphia," he said as she moved in his arms, "I love you. I don't understand you but that doesn't matter. I've left a letter for you on the desk—it's for you to take to my father. I want you to take it and leave for Nevada, for the Ponderosa. I know you probably won't but I would be grateful if you would." Adam waited but she said nothing. "After the war, I'll come for you if you stay. I promise I'll come back as soon as I can. If your husband's here, I'll move on. If he's not and you don't want to leave here, I'll stay here with you."

"No, you won't. Tomorrow I'll lose you." She turned in his arms to face him and even in the soft darkness, he could see her shining eyes and the soft curves of her jaw and the sweetness of her mouth.

"I told you I'll be back and I will." And with that, he took her body and their joining was bittersweet, tender yet desperate, gentle yet fervent, and Adam lay awake the rest of the night holding her, his eyes hot with fear—not for himself but for the woman.

Adam had worried that the woman might cry, cling to him and beg him not to go but his fear was for naught; she was emotionless, handing him a sack filled with still warm biscuits sliced in half and filled with crispy bacon. She had also packed some deer jerky for him. And she had slid the dead man's pistol into his waistband. He stood, not knowing how to say goodbye. Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out the jade disc that Hop Sing had given him. He pressed it into her palm.

"It's kept me safe so far—I give it to you with the same wish." And then he pulled her to him and breathed in her scent but she didn't hug him back. Nevertheless, he tilted up her chin and kissed her mouth. "I love you—more than any other person on this earth and I'll come back for you. As soon as I can, I'll be back. Whatever else happens, I'll return to you."

The Yankee Captain mounted the horse and looked at her. The woman's lip was quivering and he saw her struggling with emotions that were greater than the both of them. He turned the horse's head in the direction of the cannon fire they had heard the day before and rode off. The woman stood on the porch until he was long gone. Then she turned and went back into the house.

A few months later, the war was over. The news came that General Robert E. Lee had surrendered at Appomattox and Adam wordlessly left his regiment to head back to Zelphia. He barely slept on his journey, traveling nonstop until his horse was exhausted and he had to rest. Then one early morning, right before dawn, he found the farm. He sat on his horse, unable to comprehend what he saw. The house was burned to the ground, just the brick fireplace and the chimney standing tall. The stove still stood where the kitchen had been but everything else was ashes. Even the barn had been burned to the ground. There were no chickens scratching in the dirt, not even an insect in the air—no sign of life except for the Confederate jasmine—there was small sprout bursting forth from the knob of the base of the charred plant.

Adam dismounted. He went to where they had buried the jewelry found in the deserter's saddlebags but the flat stone was undisturbed; the woman hadn't dug up the pieces. To Adam, it meant she had left hurriedly or…but he wouldn't consider that anything vile had happened to her—he couldn't consider it. He called out for her, not that he expected to hear her respond, but he did anyway. Then he mounted his horse and for the next month, he searched for her, asking the people in the countryside who hadn't been burned out and those who were trying to rebuild their lives, if they had seen the woman but no one had or if they had, they had paid no attention to a lone woman.

And one night Adam sat at a campfire he had made while his horse cropped grass nearby. A farmer had given him some cornbread and he had made it his meal. Tomorrow he would head home for Nevada and his family. He thought of the woman and her face and her soft, white arms and her lush mouth and he felt her absence so sharply it was as if someone had stabbed him through the heart.

"Oh, Zelphia," he cried out. "Where have you gone that I can't find you?" And Adam knew this was what happened after a war. But the enemy wasn't a faceless mass but a single, lonely woman who was proud, brave and heartbreakingly beautiful and he had surrendered his heart to her in what now seemed eons ago. Adam felt that his duty to his beliefs had cost him too much and he had nothing left.

To the victor belonged the spoils but he felt no victory, just an overwhelming sadness at the waste of lives and the destruction of a society. But most of all, the destruction of Adam Cartwright; that honorable, virtuous, principled, moral man was dead and the Yankee Captain didn't yet know who had taken his place.

~ Finis ~


End file.
